


The Sweetest Taboo

by tmelange



Series: The Agony & the Ecstacy [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Highlander/Angel crossover. Methos meets Angel. MacLeod is not at all happy about their association, and Joe—well, Joe is stuck in the middle. While Angel is playing at being human, he struggles to control his desires, and a little more of his past with Methos is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written...ages ago (1999) and is being archived here just for posterity. Don't expect anything good, lol. It was one of the first stories I wrote and it is very purple. No need to comment about it. ;)
> 
> This is a Highlander/Angel crossover and is primarily Methos/Angel with a bit of Duncan/Methos as a foil. Duncan is not portrayed in a good light in this story, so if you are a big Duncan fan you likely should skip this. This story was written in response to an anyone_but_mac yahoogroup challenge which sort of required a bit of Duncan bashing so. Trust Duncan/Methos was my first OTP and I love Duncan. This is just a different sort of story.
> 
> Also, this story is the third in a series that will likely never be finished, so buyer beware.
> 
> In this A/U, Angel is still in possession of the Gem of Amarra, the ring that grants a vampire eternal protection and allows him to walk in the sun with impunity.

I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.

W.B. Yeats

+

Prelude

The light of a dying sun is always wondrous. It is a magical spell that shines down upon people and changes them, a burnishing caress that exposes all the dark recesses and remakes shadow into a more perfect reflection of the light. This has never been truer than on this cold November day in Seacouver where people are wading through their horizontal lives in the hazy glow of the setting sun. They drift by anxiously, hurrying past those temporary moments when they might have changed it _all._ This is Seacouver–a city of the dead as well as the living, of the undead and the deathless–a place where death . . . is only the beginning. It is here I have brought you on this late afternoon, to walk around, to experience and witness, if you wish, a crossroad.

We have come at an opportune moment, too. Over there, by the DeSalvo Dojo, are the players, and both are wearing their torturous masks of death. Follow me closely and listen. We will watch them from the lengthening shadows for they are both special, both unique to this world. However, I caution you: walk softly as we follow them; speak quietly during the telling. For this is the time of day when mysterious ephemera tease the corners of the eyes. We would not want to betray ourselves, to interfere in any way with what may come to _be._

Walk softly, my friends. Speak quietly on this day of beginnings . . . and of endings. Bear witness to a sacrifice to the Powers That Be of a matchless thing. Watch and listen. Learn how unconditional love begets life from the bitter dregs of death.

 _Come._ Let me show you how it was on that first day–the day that Methos, the world's oldest Immortal man, first met Angel, the vampire with the Immortal soul.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

It lies not in our power to love or hate,  
For will in us is over-rul'd by fate.  
When two are stript, long ere the course begin,  
We wish that one should lose, the other win;  
And one especially do we affect  
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:  
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,  
What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.  
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:  
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

C. Marlowe

+

Anticipation was a green, two-headed, hell-spawned demon bitch of a feeling.

Angel finished his kata and slowly exhaled. He held his position for a long, decisive moment and then ended his exertions by bowing gracefully to the wind. He was too agitated to do anything other than the rote of a kata so familiar to him that he could have done it with his eyes closed. Anticipation, and a hefty dose of trepidation, churned in the pit of his stomach, making concentration practically impossible. Angel picked up a towel to wipe his face. He didn't know why he was even trying to act nonchalant. Methos was on his way to the dojo. Angel could feel him getting closer. His footsteps were loud on the sidewalk of Angel's consciousness, banging against the concrete like a jackhammer.

The fading light of dusk streamed through the large windows at the front of the gym, coloring everything it touched a faint shade of orange. Angel watched the light play across the white walls, marveling at the innocuous piece of jewelry that allowed him to be a part of such a glorious day. The Gem of Amarra. Angel looked at his hand, at the priceless ring on his finger that allowed a vampire, an undead creature of the night, to play at being a normal person. No vampire should have such a boon, such an advantage. Angel struggled with the guilt, the knowledge that he was using the ring to realize a personal desire. He knew he was not worthy of such a blessing, but he could not help himself.

Angel found his eyes straying constantly to the door. He had been waiting for this meeting for days, thinking, worrying about the best way to initiate first contact. He had followed Methos around the city and stood outside his apartment building, watching the lights shift behind closed window curtains. He had observed Methos as he went about his duties as Professor Adam Pierson at Seacouver University and while the Immortal engaged in more mundane tasks like shopping for food at the grocery store. Angel was always careful not to be seen, remaining on the periphery, looking for the right set of circumstances to make Methos' acquaintance. He nursed a guilty pleasure, one that coiled in the pit of his stomach like a snake, at his illicit surveillance.

And finally, he thought he had found a workable opportunity. After witnessing Methos' argument with Duncan MacLeod on campus and hearing Methos say he would be coming to MacLeod's dojo to practice, Angel figured the dojo would be the best place for an 'impromptu' meeting. However, Methos had stayed away from the dojo for four long days. The waiting would have been killing him if he weren't already dead.

In fact, Angel was loath to admit, consciously and irredeemably, that he had called Methos to this place—because that would be a further acknowledgment of the illicit bond he had forced upon him last Saturday night at the waterfront. Just as with those he had sired—Drusilla, Penn—and his own sire, Darla, proximity allowed for shared awareness of thoughts and feelings, of location, of dreams and of memories. It was a byproduct of the kiss of death granted a vampire—the draining of the blood, the commingling of living and undead essences as the victim died and was reborn to life as a creature of the night. The bond was no less powerful for his not having the ability to turn Methos. Angel had experienced a simulacrum of this sire-like bond once before, with Buffy, but the bond with the Slayer had been nowhere near as rich or as compelling. It had to be the Immortal blood. The bond was there, and it was stronger than anything Angel had ever felt before. He knew that if he called, Methos would have to come, though he might not consciously know why.

Now that the moment of their introduction was at hand, Angel thought, perhaps, his great idea for meeting Methos was not such a great idea after all. He really hated 'meeting' people. Life as a vampire was simply not conducive to developing people skills and, after all that had happened to him in the last 247 years, it seemed impossible to connect with the outgoing, egoistic person he had been while human. The memories of his time as Angelus were almost surreal—like glimpses of things that happened to another person—and somewhere on the other side of the abyss that had been his life as the world's most ferocious vampire, was his human life and all that he had been before the change. Through the haze of time and distance, recalling normal human interaction was like trying to grasp and hold the falling snow.

And that was the crux, the obsession that intertwined itself with the irresistible calling of Immortal blood because, remarkably, Methos was a connection to his prior life, his life in Galway as Liam. Because of his Immortality, Methos was the only person left who had known him then. And what an amazing thing! Angel had become accustomed to being alone, to there not being one person on the earth like himself—no friends, no family, no other person who knew him when he was human, not one connection left to that other, simpler time. The human life that existed on the far side of hell, the life that had become hazy and indistinct, was suddenly accessible to him again through Methos, and it was poignant, like finding an old scrapbook of pictures of younger, gentler parents, of childhood, of when you were five years old or ten; a reintroduction to things that you only vaguely remembered or had forgotten altogether. Methos represented exactly that to Angel—a chance to know again those things that had been lost to him.

Angel wanted permission to explore those memories. He didn't want to steal them as he had the other night, delving in Methos' subconscious like a thief. He wanted to know the man he had known as Uncle Benjamin again, to talk to him, to explain what had happened to Liam over the years and why, to share with him this cross of redemption. It was the most important thing in the world to Angel, more important than life, more important than salvation or the dream of one day becoming human again. And it all depended on today, on what he could think to say to the man who had been like a father to him a lifetime ago.

What could he say to Methos? Where should he start? It wasn't as if he could walk up to him as he entered the gym and say, "Hi, I'm a vampire. You may not remember this but I sucked you dry the other night and had my way with you. I thought you might want to talk about it . . ." Angel grimaced. If only it could be that easy. Of course, the truth is never . . . easy. He had learned that fact the hard way.

 _Doyle would know what to do,_ Angel thought wistfully, but Doyle was dead and Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn, his only other friends, were back in L.A., waiting for him to return. He was on his own. Remarkably, he felt as nervous as a teenager on his first date.

Then he arrived. Angel froze as Methos walked through the door of the dojo, the swan song of a dying sun illuminating his fair skin. Methos looked . . . ordinary . . . at first glance, like any other person walking in with gym bag and gloves, scarf and coat closed tight against the cold, but then he moved out of the doorway and across the room and heads turned in his direction, unconsciously, and human eyes saw . . . the ordinary . . . but some inner sense was entranced by an uncommon grace of movement, the sly rhythm of the preternatural. Although the consciousness knew not the intrinsic nature of what the eyes beheld, that deeper sense recognized and coveted.

Angel took a stealthy note of this regard as he had while following Methos around the city and felt a senseless jealousy pull at the edges of his civility, unwrapping him. Angel found he was jealous . . . of anyone who could look on Methos desirously, of the sun and the moon and the stars that were allowed to shine on him, to caress his fair skin with impunity. Angel was familiar with this jealousy of a passionately cold blood that . . . coveted . . . what was never meant for it, for he had been afflicted with such a passion in the past, with Drusilla and with Buffy—though it seemed he had never felt it so keenly, so sharply. He knew this pervasive feeling of jealousy intimately, disconsolately, because it was the curse of a vampire's existence—to love that which he destroys and to destroy that which he loves.

As these jumbled thoughts raced across his mind like an angry mob, a flowing, flooding heat drowned Angel's senses as the insidious calling of the sweetest blood he had ever tasted licked his consciousness. He felt an ubiquitous embarrassment and guilt pool in the pit of his stomach and well up like bile at the back of his throat—guilt at having attacked Methos, for following him around and watching him, for having given in to his baser nature and for not being able to control himself.

Angel looked quickly at the floor, at the ceiling, towards the other side of the room—anywhere but towards the door. He couldn't meet Methos' eyes yet. He felt he would wither under the man's cool regard. Would Methos remember what had happened the other night at the waterfront? Would he recognize him? Angel did not think so and found himself fervently begging the Powers That Be for a clean slate, that Methos not remember what he had done to him. He swore to himself that no matter what he had to do, he would never touch Methos again without the man's permission. He would find a way to circumvent this blood passion. He would control himself. He just wanted a chance to get to know Methos without all the complicated explanations. Just one chance.

Angel mentally floundered and searched frantically for a lifeline as Methos made his way around the gym.

Kata. That is what he thought to do. Angel started his kata again, and out of the corner of his eye, watched Methos as he entered and exited the locker room. He kept and eye on him surreptitiously as he stretched gracefully and took up a lotus position in a corner of the room. Angel worked through a very complicated sequence and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt sick. Can vampires get sick? he wondered absently. He didn't know. He had never felt sick before. How was he going to do this? Should he go over there? Introduce himself? Say something funny or witty.... Did he know anything funny or witty?

Angel opened his eyes and Methos was standing right in front of him gazing at him speculatively, appraisingly, close enough to touch. Angel jumped, alarmed at their sudden proximity. He stopped his kata mid-sequence.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt but where did you learn Choy Gar?" Methos grinned at him charmingly.

Angel blinked . . . and blinked again. He thought distantly that perhaps this was all a dream. Angel suspected that he had the stupidest look on his face, but for the life, or death, of him, he could not think of what he should be saying.

"I didn't think anyone practiced that form any longer. It's very old.... I'm Adam, by the way." Methos held out a hand.

Angel was so shocked at the advent of the very moment of all his worrying and planning that he just stood there, frozen like ice, knowing that there was something expected of him but unable to call up the correct response.

"I . . ." Angel 's tongue felt like lead in his mouth and no words came to his to rescue.

Methos took a good look at the strange young man standing confusedly in front of him. The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement . . . and interest. Methos had noticed the tall young man with the dark good looks immediately upon entering the dojo. He always made it a point to be very attentive to his surroundings, especially the people. After all, one did not live long by walking around with one's head in the sand. The young man was muscular and beautiful, with an unconscious strength and grace that was almost palpable and really quite striking, but he seemed upset and flustered for no readily apparent reason.

 _He must be shy,_ Methos thought to himself, _or just crazy...._

Methos looked pointedly at his outstretched hand, trying to prompt Angel into the proper response. Angel's eyes followed his gaze.

"Sorry," Angel mumbled and grasped the offered hand.

 _Stars streaming across a midnight sky . . . blistering sensations . . . the world tilting wildly on its axis . . . sweet memories as insubstantial as the finest mist . . ._

Angel broke contact quickly. "Uh . . . I'm Angel."

Methos looked at his hand and then up at Angel with flagrant curiosity. What was that? he thought to himself in astonishment. He noticed how Angel avoided substantive eye contact, the young man's gaze met his own only fleetingly, hesitantly, seemingly shy or withdrawn. The man was mystery, a puzzle. Methos loved puzzles.

Methos took a step closer to Angel. He didn't usually flirt with strangers at the gym but everything that had happened in the last ten minutes—since he had entered the dojo and his gaze had come to rest lightly on Angel—was so unusual that the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. He felt this weird expectation that something else was about to happen. Something desired, something dreaded— _but what?_

Methos lowered his voice slightly, almost imperceptibly. He took a step closer to Angel, stuck a toe in to test the waters. "So . . . are you going to answer my question?"

Angel took a step backwards unconsciously, trying to keep a proper distance between them, struggling to maintain his crumbling control. Everything, everyone, in the dojo had eerily faded into the background. Life was moving in slow motion around a small oasis that was Angel standing with, talking to, Methos.

"What question?" Angel licked his lips, trying to scare up some small amount of moisture in a dry mouth.

"The kata. Where did you learn it? Are you familiar with all the forms of Choy Gar? Can you fight with it?" Methos asked his questions in a teasing, gentle manner, attempting to put Angel at ease. Some wisp of a memory brushed Methos' mind, some thought, a recollection of a searing sensation tied to their handshake . . . or something else. Methos briefly considered the look of recognition that Angel could not quite hide from him, a man who had seen so much deception in 5000 years and who was a master in his own right. Methos did not want to scare Angel off before he figured out what was going on. His senses still sang a brightly cheerful chorus from that one brief touch of hands.

"Choy Gar? I've never heard it called that. I learned it a long time ago from an old . . . friend. I never asked him where he picked it up. I can fight with it but I've never run into anyone else who was familiar with the form, so I don't practice it much—other than the katas." Angel stopped talking, feeling guilty for proffering this slight misrepresentation. In truth, he fought with this style all the time against vampires and demons, although he rarely had the opportunity to 'practice' it and, after all, living his type of solitary life, whom did he have to practice with?

Memories flashed quickly through Angel's mind of a hazy time long ago when he was Angelus and spent his days and nights with his Master, endlessly practicing this very art form. His vampire elder had been so proud to be conversant with what he termed a 'dead' form of martial arts, feeling it an ironically apropos form for the undead. Thankfully, those days were behind him, and Angel was left with this one gem. Everything was a matter of life and death in his world and Choy Gar was uniquely suited to unarmed fighting against an armed opponent.

"Well, today's your lucky day." Methos grinned impishly, an engaging twinkle in his changeable eyes. "Sounds like you need a sparring partner."

Methos gestured towards the mats, an outwardly simple invitation, but his curiosity was sharply piqued. He would have laid a million-to-one odds against anyone who was not an Immortal of at least 2500 years knowing this particular form of the martial arts. Hmmm, he thought to himself speculatively, _Curiouser and curiouser._

Angel followed Methos to the sparing area with no small amount of trepidation. Vampires were so much stronger than the average human. Angel was afraid that he would hurt Methos accidentally, or inadvertently reveal his own unusual nature. Angel knew that he could not hurt Methos permanently, but the explanations would be . . . awkward. Angel remembered how the last person reacted to the knowledge of his true nature—Kate, the police officer from Los Angeles. He had really liked her and had allowed a small hope to blossom in the depths of his soul that they could be friends, but as soon as she found out about his darker side she recoiled. Venomously. The people he had helped, the good he had done didn't matter at all. His dark nature became the sum total of his existence in her eyes. Angel did not want to imagine a similar reaction from Methos.

"Angel? Are you okay? Listen if you don't want to do this...." Methos touched his arm to get his attention.

Angel shook his head. "No, I'm fine. I was just thinking of something. Let's go." He smiled hesitantly. Methos noticed how that smile changed his whole countenance.

"You should do that more often." Methos threw the comment over his shoulder jauntily as he turned towards the mats.

"Do what?"

"Smile. Makes you look more approachable." Methos grinned. One of his favorite hobbies was telling people what they should be doing. Most people found it annoying, and there was nothing Methos loved more than being annoying.

"Approachable is not really my specialty," Angel explained sheepishly, "but I've been told that I do mysterious and somber with the best of them."

"Well, at least you have a sense of humor," Methos countered dryly.

"It's kind of a necessity in my line of work."

"Really, what are you? A stand up comedian?"

"I'm a private investigator. I have a business. In Los Angeles." Angel pulled out his wallet and passed Methos one of the new business cards that Cordelia had printed up. He never thought he would be so glad to bear the product of one of Cordelia's big ideas.

Methos looked at the card. "Angel Investigations: We help the hopeless . . . in L.A.? You must have a veritable plethora of clients." He laughed and shook his head at the thought of what amounted to 'hopeless' in L.A. He was very familiar with the scene in Los Angeles. In fact, he was often a guest lecturer at the University of Southern California. Adam Pierson had quite a few friends in that town. He knew that for many of the local aspirants, a severe case of not being able to find an agent would be grounds for suicide. "So what are you doing in Seacouver?"

"Umm. I'm in town on a case," Angel answered slowly. He suspected Methos was curious and cautious by nature. Angel wanted to give him just enough of the truth to prevent him from being suspicious of their meeting.

"How did you end up working out here? This is a little far off the beaten path. Are you staying at one of the hotels?" Methos' questions were lightly asked but his suspicious nature was keenly interested in Angel's response.

"Yes, actually. I'm staying at the Hyatt." Angel fished around quickly for a plausible reason for his working out at the dojo.

"Doesn't your hotel have a gym?"

"It does but I prefer a more serious atmosphere. I was walking by and this place looked very serious. I'm not sure how long I'll be in town—at least a month, maybe two. Since you can sign up here month-to-month, it seemed like a good idea. Plus, I really wanted to find someone to spar with." Angel was proud of himself. He could be pretty quick on his feet.

"A month, huh? What are you investigating? A recalcitrant husband? Local organized crime? Wait, don't say it: If you tell me you'll have to kill me, right?" Methos laughed and was surprised to find Angel laughing with him.

"Nothing like that, but it is confidential. I can't really talk about it."

"Say no more." Methos held up a hand to forestall further explanations. "I wouldn't want you to compromise yourself on my behalf." Methos smirked and changed the subject.

"I teach at the University." Methos offered the information in the spirit of a reciprocal exchange of information. "I'm not a native but I've been in Seacouver off and on for a few years now. It's a nice city—a lot quieter than Los Angeles. You should have a nice stay if the hotel living doesn't drive you batty. I make it a point to impose on friends at every opportunity rather than patronize them. Do you have any friends in the area?"

"No . . . no friends. This is my first time in Seacouver. I haven't really had a chance to meet anyone."

"Well, I can tell you a few of the more interesting places to go to see the sights—that is, if you're not too busy investigating on behalf of the hopeless." Methos grinned.

Angel felt that Methos was laughing at him but in a teasing sort of way, and he found that the ribbing did not bother him. In fact, he enjoyed it. Their discussion was free and easy and almost like any discussion between any two people meeting for the first time. Almost.

"It's getting late. We'd better get started before we get thrown out of here." Methos made his way to the center of the mats and took up a defensive position. Angel took a deep breath and followed him. And the battle was joined.

They fought tentatively at first and then with more vigor. Angel could see the surprise on Methos' face as he acknowledged Angel's skill level—a surprise that was quickly banished as a mask of concentration settled on his face and a light sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. As for Angel, he tried to hold back, to pull his punches, not wanting to hurt Methos, but found it more and more difficult and self-destructive to do so. The level of expertise that Methos possessed was more than a match for brute strength, and although Angel was the stronger and faster of the two, that strength and dexterity was matched by an adeptness that required Angel to use all of his unnatural resources to keep up. Choy Gar was not a tool for the strong. It was unarmed combat against an armed foe. Precision against strength. Water against stone.

Methos did not know exactly when he released the notion of going easy on Angel, on just testing his abilities and what could only be an inferior skill level. He was not sure when he realized that this was a competition in earnest, but it was and it required of him the fiercest concentration just to keep up. Had Methos one spare moment for reflection, he would have been astonished because Choy Gar was his art form, one that he had developed and honed in China a long time ago. As sure as he was that only himself and one other left on this earth should be proficient in its use, he was sure that this young man should be vaguely familiar with a bastardized version at best.

And that one moment of derivative thought, that one small, hairline fracture in his armor of concentration was all it took. Methos found himself on the floor, on his back with no air in his lungs to breathe, watching all the colors of the spectrum race like an enraged mob in front of his eyes, He was only vaguely aware of Angel leaning over him with a knee on his chest.

And then, shockingly and without warning, all hell broke loose.

Duncan MacLeod was there—with a discordant Immortal signature that was like a slap to a sunburned cheek. He grabbed Angel by the shoulder and pulled him off of Methos forcefully, violently. Methos choked and gasped for air. Angel stumbled, lost his balance, and went careening into a wall as Duncan glowered, his stormy expression spoiling for a fight, his whole demeanor begging for Angel to get up so that he could knock him back down again.

"Mac . . . don't—" Methos coughed and tried to get Duncan's attention, but Duncan was focused intently on Angel.

"What were you trying to do? Kill him? Didn't I tell you when you signed up to be careful?" Duncan began his remonstration loudly and stridently.

"Calm down. We were only sparring." Angel straightened up and looked at Duncan with a vehement dislike that—had Duncan's reasoning not been impaired—would have seemed to him to be disproportionate to the offense. But then, Duncan's reaction was irrational and disproportionate in itself and, really, what pot has the faculty to call the kettle black while roasting over the open fire?

Angel mentally dismissed Duncan. With a disdainful glare, he made his way over to Methos who was still lying on the floor trying to catch his breath. He offered him a hand up, and Methos took it. Methos got to his feet gingerly, eyeing Angel with a newly minted wariness.

"You're a lot stronger than you look," Methos stated with a feigned nonchalance. _Questions._ He had so many questions, but first, he had to defuse Duncan. He disengaged his arm from Angel's grasp, absently noticing Angel's reluctance to return to him the use of his hand. He walked slowly, achingly, towards his Immortal friend. Having just been thoroughly trounced, Methos was not really in the mood to deal with high-handed baby Highlanders. His tone mirrored his disposition.

Before Duncan could say anything about the situation, before he could express his concern, Methos took the offensive.

"MacLeod, thanks ever so much for defending my honor but, as you can see, I'll live. We were only sparring. No need to get your kilt in a twist." Methos mentally cued Angel to back off, to go do something else that would take him away from Duncan so that he could talk to the Highlander unimpaired. Angel seemed to pick up on this desire and made his way slowly to the locker room, glancing back once, twice, unwilling to leave Methos alone with the irate Immortal. Angel felt that at any minute, Duncan's glare would turn him into a pillar of salt.

Duncan watched Methos watch Angel retreat to the locker room. He was so irrationally agitated, which was, in itself, strange because he had been so calm a few minutes ago. But then, as he entered the dojo, he had recognized the unique signature of Methos' presence. He had been momentarily elated, thinking that maybe Methos was ready to talk. Duncan had avoided pressuring him, had left Methos alone for four days, knowing that the old man would show up when he was good and ready. And then he saw him sparring with that . . . stranger, using a style that Duncan didn't even recognize, with more expertise than Duncan had ever seen him use.

Duncan's palms had started to itch, and as he absently rubbed them against his jeans, Methos' signature had overwhelmed his senses, seeming almost to call to him verbally. When Methos ended up on the mat struggling for breath with that stranger on top of him, Duncan's reaction had been instinctive and immediate.

It had all happened much too fast to be reasonable.

"Methos, I need to talk to you—" Duncan began in hurried tones, his body language demanding Methos' full attention although he didn't dare to place his hands on the man—not after their fight on campus.

"I know, MacLeod. But I don't want to talk. I guess we are at an impasse of a sort." Methos tone suggested flippancy but his eyes were deadly. Serious.

"Methos—"

"MacLeod," Methos mimicked sarcastically, but then he toned himself down. "Listen, I'm tired. I just got my ass kicked if you hadn't noticed. I'd like to go home, take a bath. Rest my very, _very_ old bones. I'm not as young as I used to be. Can't we do this later?"

"When?" Duncan demanded.

"I don't know. Later. Not now." Methos noticed Angel exiting the locker room with his gym bag and wearing a very smart-looking long black leather coat. After giving Duncan a dismissive glance, Methos made in his direction.

"Hey Angel. That was a good blow out. Thanks a lot. You're much better than I expected. Maybe we can do it again. It would be good for me to get some practice since you're going to be in town for a while—and you did say you were looking for a sparring partner." Methos expected a positive response from Angel in the same way that a person expects the sun to rise in the east. He didn't know why there was such expectation attached to this chance encounter but he knew that more, much more, of _something_ was just around the corner, just out of sight.

"Sure, I'd like that." Angel looked hesitantly in Duncan's direction, feeling the heat of the man's gaze boring into his face.

"Okay, how about on Sunday?" Angel nodded his assent. "Here? Around the same time?"

"That works for me," Angel agreed quickly. He was glad to have an excuse to see Methos again, glad that everything was working out so well. He was happy. Ecstatic. He felt as if he could walk on air.

"Hey listen, what are you doing tonight? I have a friend who owns a blues bar not too far from here. It's called Joe's. Do you know where it is?" Angel nodded. "Good. I'll be hanging out there later. My teaching assistant is singing tonight. I like to offer her moral support when I can. If you're not doing anything why don't you meet me there?" Methos didn't know why he was so willing –eager?—to spend time with a virtual stranger, why he wanted to see him later that same day and couldn't just wait until Sunday, having already made plans to spar with him, but Methos liked the young man so he dismissed his concerns. Angel was interesting and a welcome distraction from a very stressful week. After all, Methos was Immortal. He could afford to take a few chances on people.

Angel was startled at this impromptu invitation. It was more than he had hoped for. He agreed to meet Methos at Joe's after pretending to give it some thought. He didn't want to seem too eager.

Methos excused himself to get his stuff from the locker room. Angel took the opportunity to approach Duncan, who had been watching his exchange with Methos surreptitiously. Angel stopped well within what would be considered Duncan's personal space.

"The next time you go there with me you better be prepared to finish it." Angel spoke quietly and with no overt hostility evident in his tone. His verbal thrust was self-assured, almost like an innocuous invitation to tea, but his gaze was profound, hypnotic—ruthless and inimical.

Duncan shrugged a shoulder. "I'm prepared now."

"Are you?" Angel allowed a hint of his dark nature to show through. His eyes became two obsidian daggers that pierced through the soul, and his tone turned chill and as cold as the flesh of the undead. "Are you sure?"

Duncan looked, and although he did not recognize Angel's nature for what it was—couldn't even imagine such a thing—he knew no fear. Two warriors, two combatants—but only one prize, and so, the battle line was drawn, chiseled in granite, and it was left to fate to see who would be the first to step across.

 _But_ not today. Methos walked out of the locker room and took note of the two of them, and they both tacitly withdrew from the battlefield, both feeling guilty, unwilling to call Methos' attention to the conflict.

"I'm heading out," Methos stated.

"Me too." Angel picked up his gym bag from the floor and made to follow Methos to the door.

"MacLeod, I'll catch you later." Methos offered him a small smile and a nod of the head.

Methos and Angel exited the dojo—Methos hunched low in his coat, seeking ever more protection from the cold, Angel oblivious to the weather in the way of the undead.

"So, I guess I'll see you at Joe's later," Methos prompted hopefully.

"Yes, I'll see you there...."

Methos turned his head absently towards a plaintive sound, one of the many lonely and desolate groanings of a restless night.

"Do you need a ride?" Methos offered while still looking off into the night, vaguely searching for the source of the night sounds. But when Methos turned his attention back to the strange young man, he found him already gone, like smoke on a gust of air.

 _How unusual._

Methos turned his collar up and made his way towards his car. He was looking forward to this evening, to the opportunity to figure out what was going on. If there was one thing that he loved, it was a mystery, a puzzle. And that young man— _Angel_ —was mysterious.

 _In spades._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

God moves the player, he in turn the piece.  
But what god beyond God begins the round  
Of dust and time and sleep and agonies?

Chess, Jorge Luis Borges

+

The sun had set and the moon just begun its leisurely journey across the winter sky. Day had fallen victim to night, light to darkness as is fitting, for in the cycle of life, darkness must slay and the light, succumb, each according to its nature. In the circle of life, the light must pass through, go over and around, and be reborn. The people in the city sleep secure–secure in the knowledge that although darkness encroaches, the sun will rise and claim the world again.

Angel left Methos and the dojo and made his way towards the faint sound of a person in distress. The swirl of a long black coat, a flash of pale skin marked his passing. Although this was not Angel's city, he could no more ignore a cry for help than he could stop being a vampire. It was his job to help people. It had become his nature–the only penance for an undead lifetime inflicting pain and suffering on the innocent.

The forlorn cry sounded the clarion, telling Angel that it was a girl in trouble but it was his heightened sense of smell that revealed the nature of the predator. The scent on the wind told Angel that whomever was out there in the night perpetrating violence was not human. Intertwined with the smell of fear and sex and violence was the stench of the undead. Angel girded himself for battle with one or more of his own kind.

She. She was no innocent. She was a prostitute, an old, used up pro of twenty-eight years, a seller of illegal and tawdry wares on street corners and in back alleys. She was scared and her fear was acrid, palpable, like cigarette smoke on the wind. She was the weakly struggling victim of a couple of young vampires who liked to play with their food.

But Angel was there for her, for himself, materializing out of the groaning shadows. Of the many cruelties inflicted upon the hapless in the night, this attack by the undead on the living was Angel's province, to save or to avenge. And although . . . She . . . was no innocent, was in fact caught in a hell of her own choosing, what little light bearing witness in this deserted alley on this night flickered in protest at the rending. The dying light was a silent testament to the reality that on the cusp of fate, the consequences of bad decisions are sometimes so disproportionate to the lapse in judgment as to be considered tragic in and of themselves.

Angel quickly took in the scene: one vampire locked fangs to neck, the young woman struggling, her struggles weakening, another vampire standing by, waiting for his turn at the feast. Angel didn't need to see anything else; he attacked, his face changing as the demon within him surfaced from the depths, reveling in its freedom. He placed a running kick to the chest of the vampire standing off to the side and sent him flying across the alley. He pulled the other vampire off the girl and threw him into the trashcans. The young woman fell to the cold concrete, limbs askew, outstretched in a gross parody of love or lust.

"Who are you?"

The young vampire pulled himself out of the trashcans and raged at Angel, blood dripping down his chin as he prepared to fight for his dinner.

"I'm your last nightmare," Angel parried quietly.

The fight was joined.

Really, it was no contest. Just when Angel pulled the stake out of the inner pocket of his coat and pierced him through the heart, the young vampire's eyes opened wide at the realization that this was his last moment plaguing the earth. He raised his hand in supplication to Angel, to one of his own kind, but it was too late. A moment later it was over, and he was as dust on the wind.

Angel ran to the young woman, quickly disregarding the thought of pursuing the other vampire who was running full speed down the alley and towards the street. He scooped her up and felt for a pulse. The fluttering signs of life were faint, and Angel had to rack his memory for the closest source of help. The vampires had made a mess of the girl's neck.

The young ones–they have no technique.

The woman needed a hospital. She needed blood to replace what had been taken from her. He picked her up and headed towards the hospital he remembered seeing earlier in the week as he followed Methos. He headed off at a run, hoping against hope that he made it there in time.

He found the hospital and carried his charge into the emergency room. She was still alive, though barely. As Angel demanded help and explained curtly that she needed blood, he gave her into the care of doctors and nurses, those best able to restore her to herself.

For a time, things were frenetic as she was stabilized, but as the nurse turned away from the victim to ask Angel for a statement regarding what had happened to her, he was gone, and no one seemed to recall exactly when he left or what he looked like.

+

Angel stood staring up at the light illuminating the windows of Methos' apartment. He had walked over from the hospital, drawn inexorably like a moth to the treacherous brightness of the flame, knowing that he would see Methos later that night but unable to simply go back to his hotel and wait. He was restless and agitated. Excited and thrilled. Guilt-ridden and unsure of his motives. He was miserable and ecstatic by turns.

The stars, heedless of his conflicted emotions, were callously bright, the night sky clear and luminous. The air was cold enough to see your breath drift away on the currents. Angel expelled air experimentally, silently amusing himself by watching his breath float up and away, like wishes, like dreams. Vampires didn't need to breathe, but Angel found the unnecessary activity comforting. Breathing was like drinking beer or dressing fastidiously. It made him feel almost human. Many things were not needful but served to keep him grounded in an odd semblance of humanity.

In the distance a dog barked mournfully and incessantly. It was still relatively early, just eight p.m. The night was young. Angel smiled at the euphemism and shook his head. He had come to know that there was often a viciousness in youth, that the things which seemed the youngest at first blush were often the most dangerous–like 247 year-old vampires that looked twenty-five. It was so ironic that the most dangerous and unnatural things were frozen in their youth, as if youth were a double-edged sword, a boon and a curse. Youth and beauty, two terrible gifts–and this particular night was young, and most beautiful.

And passion. Passion was also a young and beautiful thing, terrible in its intensity. Angel had never had the pleasure of an old passion, of an old and comfortable love. Passion for him–for a vampire–was always young and beautiful, horrible in its ferocity and its brevity. Of course, a vampire with a soul could not afford passion at all. Control was life and death to Angel and everyone around him, but sometimes, beyond reason, he . . . wanted. Passionately. And the thought of death was as nothing in the face of it.

But then, he had always suspected that death did not matter, that, perhaps the evil perpetrated by the inhabitants of the earth, the stupidity and the cruelty, the barbarism and the brutality, did not matter at all. What matters then? Perhaps all that matters is what one wants. What is truly, truly desired. Against the inevitable press of time and fate, real desire, of any sort, could likely be the only thing that counts. Perhaps all that was real, all that matters, is what the heart wants passionately, whether it is right or wrong. Perhaps.

Angel glanced around at the deserted streets. Strangely, Methos' apartment was located a good long walk from MacLeod's dojo, in an area of town that abetted Angel's illicit surveillance. The area was dark with few lampposts, and buildings were scarce and widely spaced. The buildings that were in evidence were square, mostly converted, loft-style office space with a spattering of storefront properties. This configuration resulted in there being a dearth of people wandering around in the evening hours and a spectral separateness that encouraged privacy.

Methos' three-story building was one of the few apartment buildings in the area. Angel had determined earlier in the week that there were only four tenants in the building, including Methos, and that each tenant had their own entrance and a balcony. It was an interesting building, allowing a person to come and go unobserved while offering, effectively, two ways out of each apartment. Methos' neighbors were all single men, which made sense. The area was not exactly amenable to families or single women.

Angel had spent so much time in the last week standing in the shadows outside this building observing everything about the area, about Methos' life, that it was beginning to feel like home. He wondered absently what he intended to do with the information, what purpose there was in knowing the neighbors, the neighborhood, the particular ingress and egress to Methos' apartment. After all, he would never be invited in.

He wished, just for a moment, just for a day or a night that he could be free to pursue Methos, to go out with him, to have fun and even make love to him like a normal person. He would knock on Methos' door and be invited in with a smile and a kiss and sweet promises of more and better things to come. It would be like it had been that first time, the only time, at the waterfront–the sweet, salty taste of skin, the hard press of bodies–but without the blood. Blood would never be allowed to mar such a beautiful devotion. Methos' love would be eager, and willing, and without the blood red stain of compulsion.

The demon within him, the part that he suppressed constantly, latched onto this fantasy as a weakness in the chain mail of his humanity. It whispered to him enticingly, seductively, that he could have all that he wanted with Methos and more–or at the least a semblance so real as to be indistinguishable from reality to a vampire. A vampire. If only he would embrace it and let go. Let go of his soul.

But Angel was too strong to give in to such obvious temptation. Resistance was a friend to him, and he thought himself firm within its grasp. He knew that sex alone would not cause him to lose his soul. Sex and happiness were not always analogous. The episode with Methos had shown him that. Even with all the exquisite feelings and sensations, even with the climax of pleasure that he had experienced with the Immortal, Angel knew that he hadn't been truly happy because it wasn't consensual. But even if it was not likely he would lose his soul by having sex, Angel knew the distinction was a fine line, and he could never afford to risk it. People depended on him–Cordelia, Gunn, Wesley. His ability to resist was their only protection, and his only solace.

If he really thought about it, the rules of his situation had been obvious from the start. That first time with Buffy–he hadn't lost his soul until almost morning, after the sex, after the climax, while he was watching her sleep. It was while watching her that he had experienced such a pervasive feeling of peace and contentment, like the last ray of sunshine before the onslaught of the blackest night. He could pinpoint the exact moment now, in retrospect; he could not afford to have a similar situation arise with Methos.

The dog had left off its dirge, and in the sudden silence, Angel returned his attention to Methos' window.

There! Angel watched from the inky shadows as the object of his obsession stepped out onto the balcony as if in answer to a silent call. Angel took a hungry note of him. Methos was still in the same sweats he had worn at the dojo and had a cup of something hot in one hand. A small tendril of smoke rose up from the cup and floated away in reaction to the cold night air. Angel scented the wind. Hot chocolate. He smiled. Now Angel knew something personal about Methos: the old Immortal liked hot chocolate.

Methos looked contemplative. Angel watched as he leaned back against the wall in thought. Pale starlight illuminated his sharp features as he lifted his face to the night sky, gazing at the stars. Angel devoured the sight. With two bright eyes, my star, my love, thou lookest on the stars above. Ah, would that I the heaven might be, with a million eyes to look on thee. Angel shook his head ruefully, silently mocking himself for his sappy poetics. Romanticism–evidence of the many pitfalls of an 18th century education.

A shooting star tailed across the night sky in brief brilliance. Angel watched avidly as Methos took note of it. What did he wish for? What was he thinking? Methos smiled, pulled himself off the wall and straightened up. He walked back into his apartment and closed the glass doors, and what little light that had pierced the darkness went with him.

This is ridiculous, Angel thought to himself with frustration. He was a vampire, a pariah. Even though many people in Angel's life these days were aware of his true nature, he still felt trepidation, guilt even, when forced to reveal his demonic side to anyone outside of his dark world. Methos would be disgusted when he found out. Angel shut his eyes for a moment in distress. So what was he doing here, in Seacouver? As for Cordelia's vision–those visions were open to interpretation. It didn't necessarily mean that he had to kill Methos. He should just go back to Los Angeles. Now. Tonight.

"You can't do that."

Angel spun around, startled and instantly on the defensive. He was a vampire; it should have been impossible for someone to have walked up on him without him knowing–but someone, something was there.

A boy of maybe nine years stood in front of Angel. His hair was white. Not gray. White. And it was long, falling down his back and reaching the base of his spine. His skin was the palest alabaster. His lips were blood red and his eyes dark orbs with barely any white to disrupt their evenness. And out of those dark eyes shone all the secrets of the universe.

"Who the hell are you?" Angel demanded of the apparition who had materialized in front of him so suddenly and interrupted his wistful contemplation of the lights in Methos' windows. His question was summarily ignored.

"You can't go back to Los Angeles, Angel. You have a job to do here."

Angel stared at the apparition in disbelief at its peremptory intrusiveness and apparent ability to read his thoughts. He was used to all manner of strange-looking demons and inter-dimensional beings and was better equipped than most to deal with unusual phenomena. He knew that the best way to deal with supernatural beings was to exude strength and confidence even if he was really scared shitless. It was all a big poker game of risk and reputation, but, fortunately, Angel was a high stakes player. He hid his discomfort with aplomb and readied himself for anything.

"Who. Are. You." Angel demanded with exasperation while poking a finger at the air to emphasize his point.

"Simply a messenger. For you. From the Powers That Be." The boy had an off-handed and familiar manner, but there was something cold about him that did not inspire Angel's trust. Of all the reactions Angel could have had to this visitation, annoyance was most prevalent.

"Great. Another messenger. How do I know you're really from the Powers That Be? You could be here on behalf of anybody." Angel waved a hand dismissively, remembering bitterly the last time he had been haunted by ghosts, compliments of the Harbingers. They had tried to trick him into forfeiting his soul and hurting Buffy. Angel considered. Of course, there had also been Doyle, a true messenger from the Powers, a true friend.

As usual in this labyrinth of a life, it was difficult for him to find the correct path, to recognize truth in all its myriad manifestations.

"Believe what you will. It is your choice." The boy turned his back and began to walk away slowly. It seemed to Angel that as the distance between the two of them increased, the boy's visage began to blur as if on the cusp of translucence. Angel felt a rush of wanting to know what the boy messenger had to say overtake his good sense.

"Wait a minute! What, are you just going to leave? Why don't you just tell me what you have to tell me."

Angel wanted to laugh at his own perversity at wanting to banish the visitor on the one hand while simultaneously wanting to know what he wanted on the other, but then, Angel was never one to keep his head buried in the sand. Better to know what was coming for good or for ill.

The boy stopped and turned. His hair flew up like wings in the wind. He made his way back to Angel, solidity cocooning him as if in reprieve.

"You already know what needs to be done. I am here to ensure that you accept this charge and understand its import. The Immortal, Methos, is a grave danger to this world. You are our champion. The Powers have bartered for your soul and brought you back from a hell of your own making to help preserve order on this world. They have gifted you and require service of you in repayment. This is your charge and your only chance at redemption."

Angel was shocked and anguished that Methos–his Methos–was the subject of this visitation, although, if he were honest with himself, after Cordelia's vision what else could it be?

"But . . . why?" Angel countered in distress. "I don't understand. What's he done? I've been watching him all week. He's done nothing dangerous. He's not planning to raise hell or birth demons on unsuspecting mortals, or anything like that. He teaches at the university. He has friends. He doesn't seem to bother anybody. I don't understand why the Powers think he deserves to die."

The boy responded sharply. "Do you require an explanation from them? Are you not a servant as am I? Is it not enough that the Powers request this of you and that they tell you it is necessary?" The boy looked at Angel speculatively, seeming to lay the vampire's soul bare for the telling. "I see. You are afflicted most severely by the blood passion. It clouds your judgment. How else to explain your reluctance? The blood of an Immortal is irresistible to a vampire, perhaps more so to you because you do not feed on living blood. For you, the blood of the gods would be doubly sweet. The Powers cannot insulate you from this. Would that you had never partaken of it." The boy messenger continued relentlessly, his voice measured, his demeanor pitiless.

"This is a hell of your own making, Angel, constructed by your own weakness. You must overcome the calling of this Immortal's blood and do what is required of you. In truth, it is your only hope. It is your life or his, for you cannot live off the blood of an Immortal indefinitely. The compulsion to feed on him will grow exponentially. No other blood will assuage that need. Every other desire, every other want will pale in comparison to your compulsion to drink in his essence. Within a small amount of time, your need to feed on him will be uncontrollable and insatiable. You will not be able to let him leave your presence. You will be as tormented as Tantalus, and as gluttonous, always eating and never feeling satisfied. He will have no choice but to kill you. Having embarked on this path, it is either your life or his.

"And should he kill you, Angel, your soul will be lost to us. You will spend an eternity in hell with no hope of expiating your sins. Mark my words. We will not restore you a second time." The boy messenger made his proclamation regally, as if he were passing final and irrevocable sentence on the condemned. There was no mercy shown, no prayer offered for the dying.

Angel stared at the sidewalk, the light and the dark crashing in the depths of his soul like the ocean onto the rocks as questions swirled around him like a tornado. Was his judgment impaired? Did he not want to believe that Methos could be dangerous simply because he . . . wanted him? After all, he had witnessed Methos in a murderous blood rage so antithetical to the demeanor that was in evidence this entire week as the man navigated his life as Adam Pierson. Which was the real Methos? Did it really matter? Did the Powers deserve a blind devotion for all they had done for him? Was he right in wanting tangible reasons that would make sense to him, tangible proof that Methos was doing something wrong?

Angel examined his soul, his tortured, cherished soul. He remembered the last time he judged in haste–when he had killed a pregnant girl's champion without asking questions first–and knew he would not follow anybody, even the Powers, blindly.

"What do I call you? Do you have a name?" Angel asked these meaningless questions absently, already looking for alternatives, explanations–other avenues to a resolution of this untenable situation. His mind shied away from the other truths that had been presented to him: that it was his life or the Immortal's; that he wouldn't be able resist the calling of Methos' special blood; that he wouldn't be able to control himself. Angel was sure, absolutely sure, he could master this situation. After all, he had only tasted Methos one time–and never would again. One taste could not be so irredeemable a thing, could not be the basis of an irrepressible thirst.

Angel didn't believe in the extremity of the circumstances. He didn't know how to believe what the messenger was saying except blindly, and that he would not do. In fact, Angel didn't understand the nature of addiction at all. There had never been anything that he could not give up, not even Buffy. Not even Buffy. Or so he told himself, ignoring, as many who are inflicted with the insidiousness of remembered ecstasy often do, that pride does go before the fall.

"I am known as Rashnu. You can call me Raz."

"Rashnu?"

The apparition shrugged a shoulder in a self-deprecating manner. "I didn't pick it."

"Okay . . . Raz. I understand what you're saying, but I just find it hard to believe that Methos is so dangerous, and that the only solution is to kill him. I'm supposed to help people, right? Why not let me try to help him. If you explain to me what is going on and give me a chance to talk to him, I'm sure I can work something out. I mean, anyone can be saved. If redemption is possible for someone like me, it should be possible for just about anyone. I know there is good in Methos. I can see it. Let me try."

The boy's countenance darkened and his words were curt. "You seek to barter with me for the life of that Immortal? Do you think yourself better able to judge him than are the Powers? That just because he shows you a pleasing countenance there is nothing more to him? You simpleton! You are going to save HIM? He is twenty times older than you, older than me, older than any other living thing on the face of this earth–older than some things beyond that. There may never be a better opportunity to end his miserable life or a better instrument. How such a recalcitrant one as you could be chosen as Champion, I do not know!" Rashnu was visibly agitated. He practically spat the words.

"This is your innocuous Immortal...."

And Angel was swept up in a whirlwind and spun around, tumbled upside down and deposited . . . elsewhere. His face was in the sand, under the blazing noontime sun. He sat up, sputtering and wiping sand from his eyes, cursing the Powers and boy messengers, and oriented himself to a scene of such horrible . . . death, he had to close his eyes momentarily to get his bearings.

Women . . . and children . . . cut down and slaughtered, or rounded up and enslaved by four men on horses. Men whose faces were painted a warrior's hue, sporting visages larger than life, larger than hope. Angel was there, watching it all . . . but not there. He was there in spirit as the years spun around him like thread on a spindle; he was there to bear witness to the abject terror, the hopelessness of murder, rape and pillage across three continents and a thousand years. Ghost-like, he bore witness to the birth of the legend of the Four Horsemen and one, in particular, who rode a white horse and was known as Death.

As the world, the real world of here and now, reformed around him and the overwhelming sights and sounds of the past faded, Angel understood. He had been shown the past. Methos' past.

"When?" Angel asked slowly, disentangling his senses from the onslaught of a past he had no business witnessing.

Raz shrugged a shoulder. "A while ago." He held his pale hand up, glancing at his fingernails.

"When?" Angel demanded again, refusing to be put off.

"Three thousand years ago–but what does time matter to one such as he?"

"What does it matter? Damn it! It was three thousand years ago! You can't be saying that you are judging him now because of things he did way back then! People change, things change...." Angel shook his head. He was upset at everything he had seen, the viciousness, the brutality, but it had happened so long ago, and those past events did not involve him. Who better than he to know that circumstances and people change? It was not in him to judge a person so harshly absent some tangible evidence of current malice. The fact that the Powers had to reach back so far to find something–it just made him skeptical of the whole situation. Perhaps he identified too closely with the forever damned.

"Who am I to judge him?"

"You do not judge. The Powers judge. You are merely their instrument."

"I'm not a puppet."

There was something very strange about this entire situation, something that just did not add up, and Angel resolved to figure out what was really going on. Why was this messenger being so vague with the details? Usually, the cases he handled had blood, gore and obvious bad guys to spare. Why did this situation require a retread of events three thousand years old for justification? Was there nothing more recent? Angel didn't know what to think, and until he was given some answers, he had no intention of killing anybody–least of all Methos. Methos least of all.

"Why do you need me to do this? Why can't the Powers just blow him away themselves if he's so dangerous?"

"Angel, you must know by now that it is not that simple. There are rules, covenants controlling the governance of this world that cannot be flouted, even by the Powers. Methos is an Immortal. He is outside our sphere of direct influence. His life is subject to its own rules, and can only be affected by us tangentially.

"You are right, Angel. Many of his most atrocious actions were perpetrated against humanity long ago. But now, he is even more dangerous! There may never be a better time to take him out of the Game. He cares for you, although he does not know it yet. Your relationship with him is fated and past avoidance. You have tied him to you by blood without his consent but because of his past association with you when you were a child, he will never take your life. You have an unprecedented advantage over the old one."

"You want me to get close to him, betray him and then kill him?" Angel asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding."

"Angel, you created this situation, this opportunity. You are the impetus. Everything moves through you. You called him to you and took his blood. You could have just walked away. You could have just walked away! But you did not. This is a chance to restore the balance. The Powers say that this is the time to act!"

"You still haven't explained why he's so dangerous."

Rashnu looked at him askance but continued as bidden.

"Methos and all other Immortals like him collect the life force of others of their kind. They challenge each other and fight to the death. The victor appropriates the loser's essence–his memories, skill and intelligence —his power. Methos has done this for more years than any other Immortal still living. He should have died a long time ago. Although technically Immortal, his kind were not meant to live so long. The power that each collects, like a collective soul, is meant to be passed on and on until only one is left. That last one will have the combined strength and intelligence of every other Immortal that has ever lived. But that event, a monumental change in the balance of this world, is not slated to occur for many, many centuries, if ever. Methos collects power. He hoards it. Very soon, the power he has amassed will reach a critical level. Even now, his footsteps reverberate across the earth and his presence, like the primordial flame of life, calls to all things. Left unchecked, his very existence will cause the end of the world as you know it. He must be slain."

"So you're telling me that Methos is like an Immortal lightning rod? He goes around killing other Immortals, collecting their life forces. You're saying he has collected so much power he's about to explode? Is that what you're saying? That because of this overload he will incite some kind of Armageddon?" Angel was stupefied and incredulous–and then something else occurred him.

"Wait, why can't you just let one of his own kind kill him? Why do you need me to do it? If what you say is true, these Immortals fight all the time. Eventually, he will lose. Why are the Powers interfering now?"

"It is not that simple."

"Of course not," Angel muttered under his breath.

"The old one is wily and stronger than he seems. We do not know exactly what would happen should so much power pass from one Immortal to another. Even if the transfer went smoothly–and there is every indication that it would not go smoothly–the problem would still exist. There would be another Immortal with too much accumulated power called by a different name, but who would still be the old one in essence."

"No, the power must be allowed to dissipate. It is the only way. An Immortal of a different kind must be the instrument of his demise to insure this. That Immortal is you."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

Rashnu looked at Angel impassively. "There is no truth. There is only balance. Within the Great Game, balance is everything. We exist only to fight, to preserve the eternal struggle–not to win. For if either side–what you would term good or evil–should prevail, the universe as we know it would end, and what would be born on that day would be skewed in the extreme. There is nothing that now exists, not god nor demon, man nor beast, that would survive such a reworking.

"My time grows short. Consider what I have told you. The only way to kill the Immortal is to cut off his head. Beware the one called MacLeod. He is the old one's protector. Do not raise his suspicions as to your true nature or your task. He is a formidable opponent. We will not be able to help you should you incite his wrath. I must leave you. Do what is required of you for the greater good and for the sake of your own Immortal soul."

The boy messenger called Rashnu turned and walked away, calling shadows to cloak him as he moved. One moment he was there in front of Angel, as real as anybody, the next he was gone like a bit of ash on the wind.

Angel was past confused and distraught in the extreme. This cross, he asked himself, must it be so heavy? Could there not be one moment of respite?

With one last look up at Methos' apartment, Angel turned and headed back in the direction of his hotel. The walk was long, and Angel supposed he could have hailed a taxicab, but he was well acquainted with the night. He found the impartial caress of his only friend strangely comforting after his discussion with Rashnu. He felt so lost, so wrapped up in his own despair, he didn't even notice the young vampire whom he had let escape from the alley earlier in evening following him, keeping downwind and to the dispassionate shadows.

How ironic. The watcher had become the watched. Imagine that.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

Thin are the night-skirts left behind  
By daybreak hours that onward creep,  
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep  
That wavers with the spirit's wind:  
But in half-dreams that shift and roll  
And still remember and forget,  
My soul this hour has drawn your soul  
A little nearer yet.

Our lives, most dear, are never near,  
Our thoughts are never far apart,  
Though all that draws us heart to heart  
Seems fainter now and now more clear.  
To-night Love claims his full control,  
And with desire and with regret  
My soul this hour has drawn your soul  
A little nearer yet.

Is there a home where heavy earth  
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,  
Where water leaves no thirst again  
And springing fire is Love's new birth?  
If faith long bound to one true goal  
May there at length its hope beget,  
My soul that hour shall draw your soul  
For ever nearer yet.

Insomnia, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

+

Methos padded around his apartment in his bare feet. He stopped in front of the fireplace for a moment and wriggled his toes to warm them up. For the hundredth time he wondered what the hell he did with his slippers. He had been having so much trouble sleeping lately that his things were scattered between the living room–where he had recently tried sleeping on the sofa–and the two bedrooms. Tonight maybe he'd try sleeping in the bathtub.

Damn that Highlander! Methos thought to himself with a sourness only matched by his frustration. He felt that his recent emotional turmoil and attendant sleeplessness was all Duncan's fault. Methos spared one last plaintive thought for his lost slippers and, resignedly, sat down on the couch to put his socks back on.

Methos was tired. Not prohibitively so, but tired nonetheless. If he didn't know better, he would have thought he suffered from some obscure sleep disorder. Ordinarily, he could go quite a long time without a good night's sleep. After all, it wasn't as if this was the first time his subconscious had gotten the better of him. It was just the nature of his distress that bothered him. His dreams–his dreams were haunted and strange in the extreme.

Every night he dreamed of bitter love and persistent death, dreams threaded through and through with the sound of obliquely tragic melodies which stabbed at his heart with sweet piercing thrusts; fantasies of lust where he laid himself down and made love to the dust; nightmares of running from a death that wore many faces and pursued him at every turn.

His dreams most recently took the shape of a dark and nameless beast of the night who stalked him relentlessly as he ran, barefooted and confused, through the wilderness. At the end of this dream, he came upon a sharp precipice as the warm moistness of beast's breath licked the back of his neck. He had no where left to turn and realized, with the bitter clarity of broken glass, that escape was illusory and his own surrender was an illicit desire. In enraptured despair, he turned and held out his hand to the beast to be bitten, but the beast took his hand in its mouth and the warm, wet tongue caressed his skin gently, lovingly, and the words that flitted through his sleeping mind were: Don't be afraid. I love you. I need you. I only want to teach you how to die....

On waking these strange dreams lay on him like a premonition, inchoate but persistent.

Methos did not know where these strange images were coming from but he suspected they were all the result of his disagreements with that damn Highland child. He ran a hand through his hair, his stomach clenching at the thought of his sometime lover and best friend. If only things could be a little easier, a little simpler. He felt so comfortable here, in Seacouver, basking in the warmth and safety of Duncan's fire. But he knew it was selfish of him and even a little cowardly, for even if lighted by others, a candle must have wax enough to burn of itself.

And, really, he knew that the Highlander was just another one of his impulsively fatal fascinations, one that had to be put aside for the safety and sanity of everyone concerned. No one knew Methos like he knew himself.

Methos got up and made his way to the kitchen. He really liked this apartment in Seacouver. It reminded him somewhat of the last apartment he had in Paris although this place was much bigger. It had a balcony and two fireplaces. It was one of the best things about America–this abundance of rentable space. One could find quite luxurious accommodations by European standards relatively cheaply anywhere in the country–other than in New York City, of course. In New York, you could sell your soul and still get stuck living like a rat in a breadbox.

Reaching into a lower cabinet for a small pot, Methos reflected on everything that had been going on lately. He had the feeling he was going to have to leave Seacouver sometime soon if things did not work out. He found the thought depressing. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed the milk and poured some into the pot to warm for hot chocolate. He had been feeling agitated lately, antsy, excited . . . expectant. He didn't know whether to attribute his mood swings to his recent troubles, the situation with Duncan or his sleepless nights. He felt like something important was about to happen at any minute, and he was too old to discount such feelings carelessly. The weird combination of fatigue and heightened expectation was making him peckish. He could really use a good fuck right now.

"Damn that infernal Highlander!"

Methos picked up his mug and headed towards the glass doors that lead to the balcony.

One of the best things about Seacouver was the clarity of the sky, the brightly sequined sky. He loved the stars, loved the night. The darkness was so comforting, so unlike the harsh light of day. Really, everything in life to him was wrapped in the fabric of the night sky like a blanket, history and hope and dreams and wishes and all that is known of gods and men. To Methos, the stars were dear old friends. They were arranged differently now than when he was young, but they were the same nonetheless, consistently inconsistent.

There! Methos smiled as he watched a shooting star dart across the sky in momentary brilliance. How many times had he wished upon a shooting star? Had any of those wishes ever come true? Did it really matter? No, for surely it was the wishing–having the faith and the hope of a child to cast your dreams out amongst the stars and expect good things in return–that counted most. He felt a special affinity for shooting stars, and watching one tail across the sky never failed to move him. The light of a dying star represented to him one of the most important things he had ever learned in his long life: that there is beauty–even in watching things fall from heaven.

It was cold, and Methos had had enough of the night air. He looked down absently at the street, almost as if he expected to see someone standing by a tree watching him. No one was there, of course. No one was ever just standing around outside in this neighborhood at night. It was a silly thought, and Methos dismissed it and headed inside.

It was getting late, and he still had a number of things to do before heading over to Joe's. He allowed the thoughts that he had been suppressing for the last hour or so to rise like cream to the surface of his consciousness. Angel–his marvelously fascinating acquaintance. Methos walked over to his computer and turned it on. He sat down and waited anxiously while it booted up. Once all systems were go, he logged on to the Internet.

Angel Investigations Methos typed quickly. He created an untraceable shell account and hacked into the interdepartmental records for three agencies: the Los Angeles Police Department, the Department of Buildings, and the Downtown Chamber of Commerce. If there was one thing time and experience had taught him, it was that in times of trouble, check everyone out, especially tall, dark strangers who just happened to appear out of the blue. Especially when he was being hunted.

"Hmm." Angel Investigations seemed legitimate. Angel appeared to have been in business for about a year. He had a business license but no gun license. The company was on record as owning their base of operations, a building in downtown Los Angeles that used to be an old hotel. The building was purchased recently, and as Methos looked at the on-line information from the deed, he recognized the closing company and in particular the attorney who handled the transactions for Angel as one that usually works exclusively with David Nabitt, an extremely wealthy owner of one of the largest computer companies in the country. Methos smiled. Apparently, Angel was well connected.

The business license had a different address than the one on the business card Angel had given him at the dojo, and Methos jotted it down so that he could look into what had necessitated the change in locations. The old address was a public building that rented out space to various organizations. Perhaps Angel had just wanted to buy a building and not have to lease. Methos exited the Buildings and Commerce Department databases and continued his research in the Police records and the periodical database of the Los Angeles Public Library. He was looking for any information regarding the types of cases Angel worked on. He was surprised by what he found.

There was very little information about Angel to be accessed through the Police Department. Apparently, he had been brought in for questioning a few times but never actually arrested, most interestingly in connection with harboring a young girl accused of murder. Angel figured prominently in the reports filed by an Officer Kate Lockley, and as Methos looked at the circumstances surrounding each report, he was able to draw one conclusion: Angel worked on some weird stuff.

He turned to the newspaper database and stopped contemplatively when he came across an article regarding a large explosion in the building where Angel Investigations was previously located. It seemed Angel also had some dangerous enemies.

Finally, Methos thought that he would see if he could find any personal information regarding his new acquaintance, like his social security number, birth date, or address. He ran search after search and came up with . . . nothing much. Angel had a 1967 Plymouth registered to himself and a driver's license. The license had a social security number and a birth date but Methos could not locate any other personal information on Angel. Angel used his business address for everything–to obtain licenses, to register his vehicle, everything. Did he live in the same building where he had his office?

Methos was very surprised that he could not find anything more personal. Most people had a portfolio of information that could be accessed on-line such as credit reports and school records. Angel had none of that. Not, at least, that Methos could find. And that was . . . odd. It was almost as if Angel and everything associated with him popped into existence about a year ago. Methos stemmed the tide of his conjecture. Because he was so familiar with creating identities and aliases, everything had a tendency to look falsified to him. Angel was only twenty-five, quite young as people go these days. Perhaps he just led a quiet life prior to his 'help the hopeless' stint. Perhaps.

"Well, I'll just have to 'pump' him for some information tonight," Methos grinned jauntily, unusually happy at the prospect of seeing Angel again. He got up from his desk, abruptly reminded that his muscles were still sore from his earlier workout, and headed towards the shower.

He looked around the apartment wondering where the cat was. "Bestat! If you don't show yourself soon you'll have to fend for yourself for dinner. I'm going out."

"Damn cat."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

You who read me, are you sure that you understand my language?

The Library of Babel, Jorge Luis Borges

+

"Hey Joe." Methos raised a hand in greeting and perched on a bar stool at the counter in front of his friend. Joe was counting money from one of the cash registers, and Methos grinned impishly knowing his interruption would probably cause Joe to have to recount. After all, it was the little things that made a long life worth living.

Joe looked up and quickly concealed his exasperation. He shut the cash register as if he had finished his work. Of course, he hadn't, but he would be damned if he let Methos get the better of him. Despite being slightly aggrieved at the interruption, Joe smiled at Methos warmly. After all, the weekend never really seemed to get started until the old bag of bones showed up.

Joe reached for a glass mug and deftly filled it with beer from the tap. He slid it in front of his friend nonchalantly.

"Adam. Good to see you, buddy. You're early tonight. Where's MacLeod?"

"How should I know?" Methos snapped sourly. He wrapped a hand around the handle of the mug and took a long draw.

"Okay," Joe said, raising a hand to fend off any added acerbity. "Don't take my head off. I just thought you two would be together. I'm surprised Mac let you out of his sight with all the trouble going on...." Joe trailed off, his demeanor subtly inviting an extensive elaboration on the current state of affairs between his two Immortals.

Methos spun around twice on the stool. "Yeah, well, I've been a real bastard lately." He grinned impudently. "I've managed to put him off through a careful exercise of my charmingly sagacious wit and overbearing personality." His grin turned slightly vicious. "I don't think he knows exactly what to do with me." Methos resumed his spinning.

"Would you stop that! Either sit still on the damn stool or go sit at a table. This is not Romper Room. Geez-us, you'd think you were two years old." Methos took a swig of beer and stuck his tongue out at Joe. Joe gritted his teeth, said a short prayer for strength, and decided to get back to his original inquiry.

"So, I guess that means you and Mac haven't exactly made up," he prodded.

Methos looked down at the counter before answering. His words were slow, grudging. "Guess you could say that." Methos glanced around the bar before continuing with a feigned nonchalance that Joe could see right through.

"Don't worry, Joe. I'll get over it soon. I always do. You know I can't stay mad at him for long." He pushed his mug at Joe implying that more words would require more beer. "I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I haven't really felt like dealing with 'Truth, Justice, and the MacLeodian Way' just yet."

Methos nodded gratefully as Joe refilled his mug. His throat was dry, and he had to take another swig before he could continue. He ignored the sympathy in his friend's eyes; He was a grown man and didn't need anyone's sympathy. But knowing how important all this was to Joe and suspecting that, in a way, Joe felt responsible for the whole situation, he decided to lighten up and put the man's mind at ease.

"In fact, I was at the dojo today." Methos threw that out there casually, and it had the desired effect. Joe's ears perked up like a little bunny.

"You saw MacLeod?" Surprise laced Joe's tone, and he was visibly interested in the details. He had assumed from Methos' touchiness that the old man had been avoiding Duncan all week.

"You could say that," Methos responded with a snickering laugh.

"Is that why you keep looking at the door?"

"What?" Methos brought his attention back to Joe.

"The door. You keep looking at the door. Did you make arrangements to meet Mac here?"

"Nope."

Joe was exasperated. "Then why are you hawking the door every time it opens?"

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. There! You did it again." Joe pointed triumphantly at Methos who had quickly looked at the door as a young couple walked into the bar.

"Joe, you are so melodramatic. I invited a friend here tonight, and I'm just keeping an eye out. Is that okay with you, Dad?"

Methos' tone was slightly condescending, a tone Joe was sure he reserved for students and very young Immortals. Joe wanted to scream.

"You know," he continued, "you take 'observant' to another level. I have some friends in surveillance if you want to do some moonlighting...." Methos loved that expression on Joe's face–commonly known as apoplexy.

"Ha, ha, very funny." Joe refused to let Methos steer him away from the point of the conversation. "Who is this friend? Anyone I know?" Methos didn't have any friends. Well, that was not quite true, Joe realized. Methos didn't have any friends that he hung out with, to the best of his knowledge, and Joe had been observing Methos for almost five years now. Unlike Duncan who was very sociable and had mortal and Immortal friends coming out of the woodwork on a bad day, Methos kept most people at a distance. Yes, he did have colleagues at the University. Joe was always surprised at how many people Methos did know and who thought well of him as Adam Pierson, but Methos had mastered the art of keeping people happily on the periphery of his life, as if most people understood implicitly that a little bit of Methos was enough and the adverse like taking too big a bite of the left-handed bit of mushroom in Alice in Wonderland.

In fact, Methos never 'hung out' with anyone other than himself and Duncan. The only other people he allowed into his inner circle were those that he, for some unfathomable reason, decided to help. Usually those people were students from the University. Currently, Joe had one of Methos' teaching assistants singing at the bar on the weekends at his behest. The whole situation with the student had surprised him, probably because in the back of his mind, he suspected that the problems of 'mere mortals' were too insignificant for Methos to concern himself with on a daily basis. Joe knew that Methos was a true pragmatist. He was quite content to stay out of other people's affairs and let things play out of their own accord even if his involvement would make all the difference. That was why whenever Methos got involved with people, it piqued Joe's interest and worried him–more than a little.

"Nope. No one you know."

Joe held his breath expectantly, waiting for Methos to continue. When he didn't, Joe exhaled breath violently.

"Who. Is. Meeting. You. Here. And why?" Joe exploded, and then looked around sheepishly to see if he had attracted anyone's attention.

"Calm down, Joe. Geez, you're so easy!" Methos chuckled contentedly.

"While I was at the dojo this afternoon, I was sparring with this guy named Angel. He's in town for a few weeks on business. He didn't have anything to do tonight so I invited him to stop by here. See? Simple." Methos shrugged a shoulder and lifted an eyebrow at Joe innocently.

Sparring with him? How . . . unusual, Joe thought to himself suspiciously. He quickly ran through his mental Methos file, the one that housed everything he knew about the ornery old buzzard, and came to the conclusion that Methos never sparred with anyone but Duncan. In fact, even Mac couldn't get him to practice half the time. Usually, Methos acted as if his skills or lack thereof were analogous to the formula for the atom bomb–sort of, "If I show you I'll have to kill you," stuff. Since when did Methos start sparring with mere mortals? Joe's mind was running on overdrive and he looked at Methos sourly. What in the world was going on now?

"Been up late with the journals?" Methos queried casually.

Joe bristled at this blatant change of subject. The journals were very important, and Joe had a lot to say about them–just not now. Methos was like a fugitive trying to throw a bloodhound off his scent. Joe knew that no self-respecting bloodhound would let him get away with it.

"Not so fast, buddy. You just happened to meet a guy at the dojo who you've taken up sparring with and who you just happened to invite here tonight? Did Mac meet this guy?" Joe had a really bad feeling about all this.

"Basically." Methos smirked, picking at his fingernails in off-handed manner. "Of course, MacLeod did almost take his head off this afternoon but then Mac is really so cute when he's jealous...."

"Adam, don't do this," Joe pleaded intently.

"Do what, Joe?" Methos opened his eyes innocently, but at the worried look on Joe's face decided to stop kidding around.

"All right. I'm only kidding." Methos shook his head and whined, "Joe, you're no fun."

Joe's hands tightened on the lip of the counter. He thought there had to be a commandment against men as old as DIRT whining. There just had to be.

"I was sparring with Angel at the dojo only because he happens to know this form of martial arts that I like to use. I needed someone to practice with because MacLeod and I are on the outs at the moment." Methos shrugged a shoulder disparagingly. "Angel seemed harmless enough. MacLeod walked in on us as Angel knocked me to the floor. You know how overprotective Mac can be. He basically jumped down the poor guy's throat. I felt so bad that I invited Angel here tonight to make it up to him since he doesn't know anybody in town." Methos wiped his hands together, dismissive of the whole matter. "See, no big deal."

Joe looked at Methos suspiciously. Methos sighed.

"Joe, I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that. Really. I was just being friendly. Can't I be friendly or is that an attribute reserved for our noble Highlander? Anyway, Angel is not much to look at. He suffers from the three S's: silly, short and scrawny. I thought he was going to shit his pants when MacLeod grabbed him. The main reason I invited him here was because I felt sorry for him. He's harmless and absolutely no competition for the virile Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Trust me."

Joe weighed his words, trying to sieve truth from fiction–no mean task where Methos was concerned. With the old Immortal sitting there with a straight face and absent any further facts, Joe had no choice but to take him at his word. It was scary, but he forced himself to do it. Although his internal early warning system protested vigorously, he decided to let the matter go–for now.

The bar was getting crowded as more and more people showed up in anticipation of the first set. Joe had to leave Methos for a while to tend to other things such as the last minute adjustments that had to be made to the sound system and arranging for another keg to be brought up from the cellar. After he had resolved everything that needed his personal attention, he glance around to locate the old man, to see how he was holding up. Methos had moved from the bar to a table near the stage that was angled in such a way as to allow him to monitor the door surreptitiously.

Joe stopped for a moment and just watched his friend. He had a great vantage point. From where he was standing he could see Methos, the door and most of the room simultaneously. Joe watched Methos finish off the last of his beer and look at the door again. Joe shook his head in sympathy. Methos was probably bored, that's why he seemed so eager for his 'sparring partner' to show up. Joe felt sorry for the old guy. Without Duncan, he seemed lost, like a bottle washed up on the shore. Methos had been flying solo since Joy showed up. Although he would never admit it, the old guy seemed incomplete these days, as if he didn't belong in this world but for Duncan.

Joe employed a technique he had learned as a Watcher and took a step back from the goings on in the bar. He mentally divorced himself from the hustle and bustle and opened himself to pure environmental stimuli, basically observing everything that was going on around Methos in heightened detail.

Joe watched the crowd. He noticed that the women, and some of the men, too, were eyeing Methos speculatively, hoping for some sign of invitation, permission to approach. There was almost an air of breathless anticipation as to who would approach him first.

Joe watched his Immortal. Methos was certainly an attractive guy, but it seemed to Joe that he was engendering more attention than usual, even, Joe admitted reluctantly, from himself. Methos had this useful habit of blending, of sinking into his clothes, of flowing with the crowd, and a way of seeming ordinary and harmless that Joe was sure saved his ass on more than one occasion. But that facility seemed somehow suspended these days, and Joe wondered if Methos was trying to stand out or whether this change in demeanor was somehow unconscious.

Joe looked at Methos and tried to see him as a stranger would see him. He did look rather dapper tonight. Methos had an affinity for dark colors, and black was often his nighttime color of choice. Or burgundy. Or charcoal gray. He was wearing a pair of snugly comfortable black jeans–Levis 501, button fly, Joe noticed absently–with a charcoal gray silk v-neck sweater that, if Joe was not mistaken, belonged to Duncan.

The thing about Methos was the way the dark colors emphasized his pale complexion and the v in the sweater his long, graceful neck. The old man's attractiveness was not earthly or animal-like in the way of Duncan's allure. Methos was more lithe and refined, like a runner or a fine Grecian statute where all the lines whispered grace and beauty. One had to have a somewhat more esoteric eye to appreciate his sharper look versus Duncan's more brawny lines. Everything about Duncan screamed sex–and sex these days was very easy to appreciate.

And some time ago–Joe could not remember when–Methos had started wearing an earring. It was a diamond, of course, and it called attention to his face, more particularly his eyes, and a person would be hard pressed to decide which sparkled more brightly, more seductively. He had also taken to wearing a gold link bracelet on the same arm as his watch. The thing glittered and shimmied, calling attention the fine bones of his hands and his long, graceful fingers. The whole effect was rather GQ–very stylish. Joe was more than a little surprised.

Joe watched Methos flirt with the waitress who brought him another beer. He had switched from the tap to bottles of Sam Adams. The old guy was a perennial favorite of the wait staff, and Joe was sure if he turned his back for too long, they would give Methos every last beer in the place. Free. The bastard sure could be charming when he tried.

Weighing his observations, Joe came to the conclusion that, while Methos was handsome, he seemed to be having an inordinate affect on people lately. Joe could see no reason for the change and resolved to broach the subject with his Immortal at the earliest opportunity.

Giving up on his game for the moment, Joe started towards the old man's table, intending to join him for the first set, when something . . . happened. Joe was not sure what exactly caused his antennae to dither, but he looked at Methos who had started to stand up and then looked where Methos was looking, which was at the door. Joe's stomach plummeted into his shoes and the alarms started ringing and the sirens sounding, and all he could think of was:

 _Please, God. Please tell me that THAT is not Angel._


	6. Chapter 6

O nearest, furthest! Can there be  
At length some hard-earned heart-won home,  
Where, – exile changed for sanctuary, –  
Our lot may fill indeed its sum,  
And you may wait and I may come?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

+

"Son-of-a-BITCH," Joe swore while people looked at him askance. That lying son-of-a-bitch! THIS was supposed to be the guy who suffered from the 'three S's' as Methos had so deftly put it? Hardly. HARDLY.

Joe watched, appalled, as Methos motioned for Angel to join him. Angel gave him a hesitant half-smile that was all at once sweet and endearing. He had on a leather three-quarter length coat and black leather pants, with a burgundy v-neck sweater that was oddly similar to the one Methos was wearing. He was tall, slightly taller than Methos, and had immediately attracted the attention of every woman in the bar with a palpable magnetism, and some of the men, too. His skin, unbelievably, was even paler than Methos'. In fact, Angel was very handsome, and he and the old buzzard looked good together–good enough to eat.

"Please let him be straight. Please let him be straight." Joe muttered to himself. It was to become his mantra for the rest of the night.

Hesitantly, Joe made his way over to the table.

"Hey, Joe, I'd like you to meet Angel. You know, the one I told you about earlier." Methos–the bastard–grinned wide-eyed and innocent at Joe, then turned a reassuring gaze on his newfound friend. "And Angel, I'd like you to meet Joe. He's the proprietor of this fine establishment and a dear friend."

Angel held out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Joe shook it, somewhat distastefully. Already, he could not bring himself to warm up to the guy. All Joe could see when he looked at him was trouble, with big bold letters emblazoned across the sky: TROUBLE. Joe glanced nervously around and then excused himself, offering the lame excuse that he had some work to do in the office. He hurried off, suffering further indignity as Methos' laughter followed him across the room like an old dog. The bastard.

"What was that all about?" Angel asked quietly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse Joe. I just played a small practical joke on him. And, man, was it sweet!" Methos chortled, very happy with himself. "He's really a lot nicer than he seems," he assured Angel confidently. "He's just had a bit of a shock."

Methos laughed again. Angel admired the small crinkles at the corners of his eyes that spoke of much joy in the man's life. His levity was infectious, and Angel wished that he could let go like that.

"Did this joke involve me?" Angel asked suspiciously, sitting down at the table and looking around at the bar with interest. The place was nice, comfortable. Angel was glad that he had decided to come.

"Tangentially, only tangentially." Methos patted his arm reassuringly. "Joe has this maternal instinct that causes him to try to mother hen me. Sometimes I can't resist calling him on it."

Angel nodded in sympathy. "This is a nice place. Great atmosphere. Thanks for inviting me."

"My pleasure. I appreciate the company. I think I was a maitre'd in a past life so sometimes I get a kick out of playing host. Most of the time I prefer being hosted, but it's always good to switch it up now and then. And Joe's is always a good place to bring people.

"Would you like something to drink?" Methos took his host duties seriously. After all, it was not every day he was blessed with such a handsome companion. At least, he though sourly, not since MacLeod dumped me.

Angel nodded and asked for a beer. Methos waved for the waitress who took the opportunity to sashay over and exhibit her personal wares along with the more mundane things listed on the menu.

"I think she likes you," Methos whispered to Angel conspiratorially. "I could put in a good word for you. I'm sure she'd be more than willing to 'escort' you around town while you're here, no strings attached..." Methos, the pimp, he grimaced. Better to leave that past incarnation alone.

"Thanks but I don't really do that."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Date. Talk to women...."

"You don't talk to women?" Methos was confused.

"No, I talk to women. I just don't talk to women to date them. Do you know what I mean?" Angel was distressed. He hated this. He was no good at talking and socializing. He suspected his inane responses would make Methos think him stupid or gauche, at the very least. Angel knew he wasn't the smoothest cat in the barn but he did like to think he was somewhat cool. He certainly didn't want Methos to think he was a dweeb.

"I think so," Methos answered slowly. "So . . . you talk to men, is that it?" he queried delicately.

"No! I mean yes . . . I mean no. I don't date men either–not that there is anything wrong with that," Angel qualified hurriedly. "I just don't date. That's what I meant."

Methos looked at Angel speculatively. If he understood Angel correctly, he was saying that he didn't date men or women. In effect, he didn't date at all. That was impossible. There was no way that a man as good-looking as Angel could get away with not dating. Even if he was shy he couldn't be THAT shy. Methos was well aware of the tactics of the women these days. Girls had to have been throwing their panties at Angel for years now. Maybe someone broke his heart and he's been afraid to jump back on the horse, so to speak, Methos mused. Or maybe there was something wrong with him.

"I'm not really good with people," Angel added lamely.

Methos nodded his head sympathetically and let the matter drop. It hadn't been his intention to make his guest uncomfortable, and he was afraid that he had done just that. He resolved to lighten up.

"The first set is about to start. Do you like bluesy jazz?"

Angel nodded, and Methos noticed him relax a little with the change in topic.

"One of my teaching assistants is performing tonight," Methos whispered conspiratorially. "She's really good. You'll like her." He smiled at Angel encouragingly then paused a moment as he realized how many times in the last ten minutes he had smiled at the man. It wasn't like him to smile so much or be so conciliatory, so understanding of another person's feelings. It was almost as if he felt a strange protectiveness toward Angel–a virtual stranger. Methos pushed his reflections to the side to be examined at a more opportune time.

The lights dimmed, the show was about to start and Methos spotted Joe watching them tentatively from behind the bar. Methos chuckled to himself and waved. Joe was so melodramatic. Since he was watching so avidly, Methos resolved to give him a little something to gawk at–with Angel's help and approval, of course.

"Good evening everyone. I'm Jill and I would like to thank you all for coming to hear me sing. It's such a nice night, and I'm feeling kinda mellow. Let's see if I can't get y'all in the mood."

The bar had become intimate and comfortable with the dimmed lights. Methos moved his chair closer to Angel's so that they were sitting side-by-side to watch the show. In this way, they could talk in low tones while Jill was performing without disturbing anyone.

Angel got this strange feeling of euphoria at their proximity. It was like a dream to be so close to the person he had desired so intensely for an entire week. He thought heaven must be like this–with the smell and the sight and the sound of the thing that was dearest to you in all the world near enough to touch. Angel looked at the ring on the finger of the hand that was lying on the table and surreptitiously moved it into his lap and out of sight. Now, if there were only some truth mixed up in those dreams, just a little truth.

"She's good isn't she?"

Methos' whispered huskily in Angel's ear. The sexy, suggestive sound caused Angel to jump anxiously. They both laughed at his skittishness.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Unconsciously, perhaps, Methos' arm had snaked around the back of Angel's chair. The gesture was nonchalant and allowed for the two of them to talk with more ease because of the loud music. They were sitting very close, thighs touching innocuously, watching the stage, and making small inconsequential comments every so often. If, when Methos turned to whisper some new witticism in his ear, his face was a little too close to Angel's for the sake of propriety, Angel didn't mind. And if, upon occasion, Methos' arm brushed his back as the two of them laughed quietly at one of the man's silly little jokes, well, Angel didn't mind that either. To the casual observer, it looked like the two of them were an oasis unto themselves–as if they were close friends and had know each other forever.

Methos nodded his head in the direction of a man who was sitting a couple of tables over and whispered in Angel's ear, asking what he thought of the man's wild attire.

"A little too fabulous for me," Angel responded dryly. Methos laughed quietly and tightened his arm around Angel's shoulder slightly in approval.

Methos could not remember the last time he had had such a good time. He called upon all his ample experience to make Angel laugh–he enjoyed the sound of it so. The sound was like rarefied air, and Methos knew instinctively that it was special, that not many people had heard the sound of Angel's carefree laughter.

In the back of his mind, Methos acknowledged that the whole evening was strange, unique–that Angel was . . . strange; that the weird connection between them that had him feeling as if he had known Angel forever was . . . strange. Nothing should be this easy, this comfortable, but Methos chose to ignore the questions, to simply swim in a river of contentment, absent worries, absent cares for the time being. After all that had happened lately, he felt that he deserved to simply have a good time for a change without all of the suspicion.

Angel was so comfortable, sitting there with Methos' arm around him, smiling, laughing, that when Methos stiffened and looked anxiously at the door, Angel froze also.


	7. Chapter 7

No, I am not for thee. Thou art too new,  
I am too old, to the old beaten way.  
The griefs are not the same which grieve us two:  
Less than I wish, more than I hope, always  
Are heart and soul in thee.  
Thou art too much for me  
Brother, and not enough.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

+

Duncan MacLeod entered the bar–with a young lady on his arm–but the dim light offered no protection for the Immortal and the vampire sitting in the crowd. His eyes found Methos' immediately and skewered him. Lightning rods took in Angel, the arm lying across his shoulders, the proximity of their chairs and the entire situation, all at once. Duncan froze in the doorway, framed by the darkness behind him like a thundercloud.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Angel could see Joe behind the bar knocking against things frantically, like a pinball in a machine. He felt the arm around his shoulders tighten fractionally before it was removed entirely. Without being obvious, Methos had placed a distance between them, and it felt as if, with one flourish of a paintbrush, Methos had drawn a gaping chasm between their chairs. And it pissed Angel off–to have everything change so suddenly just because Duncan MacLeod showed up, but who was he to interfere between the two of them?

"Damn it," Methos muttered to himself. MacLeod would show up here tonight, he thought to himself irritably. As usual, if it weren't for bad luck, he'd have absolutely no luck at all.

And who's that girl?

The bar–so comfortably ordinary a moment earlier–took on a dangerous quality, like the air during a bitter quarrel when any terrible truth might be said.

Methos put some distance between himself and Angel. He wasn't really trying to seduce the kid. He was just trying to get him to loosen up a little. It would be a major catastrophe if Duncan decided to flex his muscles. Methos was well aware of how jealous the Highlander could get. He would hate to have Angel get caught up in the middle of a conflagration, especially in public. Angel was a nice guy. He didn't deserve the drama. Methos just hoped the fact that Duncan was at the bar with a date would preclude most of the nastiness.

And where did he meet her anyway?

Methos watched Duncan make his way over to Joe. The Watcher was hyperventilating by the bar, trying to look normal as Duncan approached. Introductions handled, Joe escorted the couple to an empty table. There weren't many to choose from as the place was pretty crowded, but Joe managed to seat the two newcomers deftly about as far away from Methos and Angel as he could get them while keeping them equidistant from the stage–no mean feat. Methos was duly impressed.

The set was winding down. Methos noticed Duncan move his chair so that he could see their table. Methos caught his eye and raised his bottle in salute–as a greeting, as a tribute to Duncan's beautiful date, and in acknowledgment of the irony of the situation. It was all there, encompassed in a single, mocking gesture.

When he returned his attention to his companion, Methos realized that while all his attention had been riveted on the Highlander, he had been rather rude to his guest. Angel was looking off into the distance, brooding, in an eerie resemblance to a certain Scotsman who had brooding down to an art form. Methos had the strangest feeling Angel was about to leave, and that if he did, he might not see the young man again. The thought made his stomach clench with anxiety.

"I'm sorry," Methos said quietly.

"No problem. Don't worry about it," Angel answered immediately, cloaking his own hurt feelings with a briskness that was belied by the look of jealousy in his eyes.

Methos wondered if they were both talking about the same thing; whether Angel actually realized why he was offering the apology in the first place, and whether he, himself, knew why Angel accepted it, and to what end in both instances. On one level, Methos knew he was apologizing for not giving his guest his full attention, but there seemed to be another level to the discussion, an undercurrent between them that was portentous, pregnant with possibilities that should not yet exist between two people who barely knew one another. It was as if Methos really was apologizing for ruining their date. And oddly, he felt as if he should be apologizing for not being able to cast aside old feelings and start over, free, hopeful, in this new beginning that was some other beginning's end. The sad thing was it was almost as if Angel was saying that he did not blame him and, in fact, expected him to lose interest anyway.

"MacLeod and I . . . we were sort of involved a while back. Sexually." Methos paused to gauge Angel's reaction. "It's over now, but we still have a few issues to work out."

"You don't have to explain," Angel said casually, as if the situation meant little to him. He took another drink of beer to hide his grimace. Did that sound too awkward?

"I know," Methos smiled impishly, "but I want to." He waved for the waitress to bring them another round of beer, mentally gearing up for the next leg of the conversation. This part was important.

Methos leaned across the table and lowered his voice, whispering almost intimately, "Does the fact that I was involved with another man surprise you?" He looked at Angel intently.

"No, not at all." Angel breathed the response decisively. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding. It did not bother him–not at all.

"Good." Methos slapped a hand on the table, making everything, even Angel, jump in emphasis. "I hate small-minded people. Life's too short. There're too many things to do and to experience to get caught up in gender issues. The heart wants what the heart wants. Don't you agree?"

Angel couldn't miss the irony in that statement as applied to his own sorry affairs of the heart. "I most certainly agree." He raised his bottle in a toast to heartfelt wants, and he and Methos drank in companionable silence.

"How 'bout you? Is there a significant other waiting for you back in Los Angeles, or somewhere?"

"No . . . not really." Not anymore.

He found himself telling Methos about Buffy. Not everything, of course. Not that Buffy was a Slayer and himself, a vampire, but Angel conveyed the issues and the feelings and how it had all ended. Most of all, through nonverbal communication, he conveyed how much it had hurt.

I have someone in my life now–someone I love. It's not what you and I had. It's very new. You know what makes it new? I trust him. I know him.

"She said that?" Methos commented quietly in commiseration. "Seems kind of harsh. It must've hurt a great deal."

"She was right. She's better off without me. I'm no good for her. I'm no good for anybody...." Angel looked down at the table, and it seemed as if every lost hope, every shattered dream, every evil deed passed like lightning in front of his eyes. They were sharp images —sharp like razors.

"You're being a little hard on yourself, don't you think?" Methos interrupted Angel's brooding introspection. He had recognized the look on Angel's face–that desolate look of self-loathing and hopelessness. Something–he didn't know what–told him that such dark despair shouldn't be allowed to linger on such a beautiful face. Suddenly, like a rose bud spreading its petals to the sun in adoration for the first time, Methos wanted to be the one that made Angel smile again.

"Listen, one of the last arguments MacLeod and I had was about trust and honesty. I wouldn't want to bore you with the particulars," Methos smiled and Angel thought fleetingly that such a man could never, ever be boring, "but, believe it or not, I've done some really unsavory things in my past. Often, I don't live the type of life he thinks I should live. For a long time, I thought I was a better person just because I was with him, and he wanted to be with me. I thought that somehow, if I could earn his approval, I would finally be worthy of forgiveness for all the bad things I had done in the past. But his approval was illusory. Every time I thought he finally trusted me, every time I thought he finally believed in me, like the old hat trick, something would go wrong, and he would throw my past in my face.

"He would say that he didn't know me, and he couldn't trust me. I came to realize something that I had known all along: there was no way for him to know me, no way for him to understand my life, and if he couldn't understand, if my experiences were too far outside the realm of his own experiences, he could never trust me. In order for him to understand me, he would have to go through what I had been through, or at least something similar. I love him, and I would never wish my experiences upon him. Letting him go was the best thing I could do for both of us. You can't love someone if their disapproval of everything you are causes you to hate yourself." Methos paused, staring at Angel intently.

"Sounds like Buffy did not know you, and if that's the case, you're probably better off without her. You'll find someone else, someone who's right for you. A good-looking guy like yourself probably has offers to spare."

Angel smiled weakly. Methos didn't know the half of it.

"Listen, what are you doing tomorrow?" Methos asked quickly. He just had a great idea, and it brightened up everything considerably.

"Nothing, I guess," Angel responded hesitantly.

"Good. Do you play football?"

"Football?"

"You know, smallish brown ball, running, throwing, touchdown, rah, rah?"

"Not really–"

"Good. Tomorrow there's the annual student-faculty flag football game. You can play on my team."

"But I'm not a teacher."

"That's okay." Methos reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and handed Angel a five-dollar bill. "Here. Now you're my teaching assistant."

"That's cheating."

"Well . . . I prefer to call it 'creative resourcing'." Methos waved a hand dismissively. "You should see what I have to work with on the faculty–fat, non-athletic, bookworms. The faculty gets its butt whipped every year. Well not this time! As one of the newest members of the faculty, I got stuck being the team captain, and I don't like to lose." Methos patted Angel's cheek.

"Can you run? Never mind. I'm sure you can. You'll make a great running back. I'll even let you play a little quarterback...." Methos prattled on and on about the game and the other members of the faculty, and the two of them laughed, and if both laughs were somewhat more strained than they had been earlier in the evening, neither one of them was going to bring it up. A portion of Methos' attention had returned to Duncan's table, and he watched him fawn all over his date out of the corners of his eyes. Methos wanted to ignore him–he had the best intentions and really was enjoying Angel's company–but clean breaks were very hard to accomplish in relationships. Methos teetered precariously on the edge–between an ending and a beginning.

Methos surreptitiously watched Duncan, and the younger Immortal glowered daggers back at him while paying what looked to be very sporadic attention to his date.

Meanwhile, Joe was behind the bar popping Advil. He couldn't remember ever having such a pounding headache. He was walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. If only one of them would leave! Go away! Before all hell broke loose!

Joe watched Methos get up and move towards the bathroom. Like quickfire, Duncan was up, too, and heading in the same direction. Joe saw Angel's hands clench on the lip of the table. Obviously, the kid had a crush on Methos. It was written all over his face. Joe just hoped the old man stopped stringing him along before someone got hurt. Really, what was all that touchy feely shit going on during the performance? Methos should be ashamed of himself, messing around with a kid like that just to make Duncan jealous. Even if the guy is easy to look at.

Joe sighed. Maybe he should go into the bathroom. They could be killing each other in there. He drew an imaginary line in the sand. As long as he didn't hear anything unusual, he would leave the two of them alone to talk it out, but if he heard fighting or hollering, he was going in there.

Methos was standing at the urinal relieving himself. He turned his head slightly as he felt Duncan walk into the bathroom.

"Fancy meeting you here," Methos quipped snidely. He arranged himself back in his pants and started towards the sink to wash his hands. He didn't make it two steps.

Duncan grabbed his arm and yanked him around. "What're you doing?"

"What do people usually do in the bathroom, MacLeod?" Methos said, feigning ignorance as to the source of Duncan's anger.

"Dammit, Methos! You know what I mean!" MacLeod's breath exploded through clenched teeth.

"Adam."

Duncan looked around guiltily, realizing he had allowed his anger to get the better of his good sense. Anyone could be in the bathroom, in a stall or something. Anyone could walk in at any moment. He had to calm down. He let Methos' arm go and took a deep breath.

"Adam, I'm sorry. Answer my question."

"MacLeod, what do you mean 'what am I doing'? I suspect the same thing as you. What are you doing?"

That was one more snide comment than Duncan could stand. He shook Methos violently, like a rag doll. If only he could shake some sense into him!

"Damn it, Adam! How do you think it makes me feel to walk in here and see you sitting draped all over that kid! Why are you doing this?"

Duncan was yelling, and Methos saw Joe peek his head through the bathroom door. He held up a hand to forestall his interference. Joe retreated respectfully, but stood right outside the door, listening, more to stop anybody from going in than to guard against the two of them fighting. Joe had no doubt one of them was going to end up dead, and he needed to be close by to clean up the mess. At least they had left their swords in their coats behind the bar. It was always so difficult to explain sword fights to the paying customers. Fisticuffs, yes. Swordfights, no.

Methos disentangled himself from Duncan's grip and tried to get a handle on his temper. He left the younger Immortal standing by the urinals and walked over to the sink to wash his hands, giving himself the opportunity to gather his thoughts.

Breathing deeply, Methos studied himself in the mirror. He could see Duncan over his right shoulder in the reflection. He could hear him panting, inhaling and exhaling. Then that déjà vu feeling came over him, and he felt as if he were reliving his dream of the other night. He had to snap himself out of the trance he had fallen into remembering. He made a startling connection between his dream and his current situation–a connection that had all the sharpness of a revelation.

Watching Duncan in that dreamed reflection, it was clear that there had never been any great love between them. Love was just a deception of the self or another, after all. The feeling–love–was comprised mostly of the trick of mirrors, the forcing of illusions by hand or eye, and the pretense to enormities of which no human being was truly capable.

And he wondered to himself: Why am I doing this? What do I need to prove? That MacLeod would leave the girl and chase me into the bathroom in a jealous rage? What is wrong with me that I need such a reaction from him?

Angel was sitting out in the bar alone while he was in the bathroom fighting with Duncan like a five-year-old. The situation was ridiculous. Methos washed his hands, straightened his clothes and faced Duncan in a calm, placating manner.

"Mac, I'm sorry. Really. I didn't know you were going to be here tonight. And you're reading more into this situation than really exists. I was just trying to show the kid a good time because he had been nice enough to spar with me. It's not a date or anything like that. Listen, can't we talk about this later?" Methos grinned slightly, trying his best to soothe the Highlander. "I know you don't want to tarnish your image by leaving that pretty lady sitting out there all by herself."

"When?" Duncan said shortly.

"When what?" Methos responded in confusion.

"When did you start seeing him?"

"MacLeod, I just told you that I'm not seeing him. I just met him today. You were there–at the dojo. Remember?" Methos' tone was heavily tinged with sarcasm, and he looked across the room at the door longingly. What had possessed him to come into the bathroom? For that matter, what had possessed him to come to Joe's tonight?

"You're lying."

Methos exploded. "Where the HELL do you get off telling ME that I'm lying? I told you that I just met the guy. Today." Methos ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "Forget this. I don't care if you believe me or not." Methos made to brush past Duncan and exit the bathroom, but he turned back instead. He had something to say to the younger Immortal that just wouldn't wait.

"And what if I were seeing him? What about your date and the endless stream of women before her? And Joi. What about Joi? It's okay for you to fuck everything that sashays by in a skirt and I'm just supposed to wait around for you to throw some crumbs my way, but GOD forbid I should have a beer with anyone."

"You're fucking him," Duncan accused.

"You're amazing. You are fucking amazing. How many times do I have to say it? I just met the guy today, and unless they've developed psychic fucking when I wasn't looking, I would think that it's very unlikely anything the two of us have done so far tonight would be considered part of the definition. But check back with me later." Methos sneered. "The night is young."

Duncan raised a fist to knock the mocking expression off of Methos' face but the old Immortal stopped him with a look. Duncan took a deep breath and looked down at the floor for a moment before saying slowly, "You're forgetting something."

"What are you talking about now?"

"The double quickening. I can feel it. I felt it when you . . . when he . . . The night we had that fight in the warehouse. I know the two of you were together."

Methos' mind clicked into overdrive. What is he talking about? Last weekend, after he killed the three Immortals, he had gotten into his car and drove home. He was home all night. He talked to Joe in the morning. Methos knew he had been out of it–three quickenings in rapid succession would do that to anyone–but he would know if he had had sex that night. Wouldn't he?

He didn't remember much about that night at all, and that simple truth frightened him. It frightened him so much that he glossed over it, put his trepidations in the closet of his subconscious and shut the door. The truth was too unreal–so absurd it got covered over and forgotten.

"MacLeod, I don't know what you think you felt, but I am telling you, I just met Angel today. Maybe I was dreaming and you picked that up. With the quickenings I took that night, who knows? But I wasn't with anybody. If I had been I would tell you. Why would I lie?"

"Does the link work that way?" Duncan asked quietly, looking at Methos seriously, intently.

Methos paused, weighing how much of the truth to reveal. As always, just enough to get by was the best course of action. He didn't want to get into this discussion right now. This was not the right place or the right time. But if he lied . . . the truth would come out eventually and make things even more difficult.

"Yes," Methos answered slowly, knowing what would come next.

"Every time I . . ." Duncan paused, looking slightly ill. "You knew? You could feel it?" Duncan was aghast as the enormity of what he was saying sunk in. Every time he had had sex with someone else–every time since the double quickening–Methos had known. He had been able to feel it, the sensations, ghost-like but potent.

How did I not know?

The answer came to him with the clarity of broken glass, the purity of crystal tears. He had not known because Methos had given him no reason to know. Since the double quickening, Methos hadn't slept with anyone else but him.

"Listen, MacLeod. It's no big deal. I handled it, and it's over now. Forget about it." Methos ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "There's a mental technique I can show you. It will block out the impressions with practice. Distance makes a big difference in the strength of the images. Over time, you will get the link under control."

Methos moved to exit the bathroom. He had had just about enough revelations for one night. He didn't want to tell the Highlander what all those nights alone had done to him, how the images of the person he loved most in the world making love to someone else mocked him like a haunting of doves. He didn't want to tell Duncan what it had cost him to stay by his side, hoping one day it would be just the two of them–and that the images would stop.

He headed towards the exit, and almost made it, but about two paces from the door, he felt his heart constrict as Duncan grabbed him and spun him around. Then the younger Immortal was kissing him, with tongue, lips, hungrily drawing his essence right out of his own mouth and into Duncan's. Strong arms wrapped themselves tightly around his body. One hand went up and tangled itself in his short, spiky hair, and the other grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it out of his jeans.

And Duncan, his sometimes lover, his priest in days past, murmured brokenly into his neck, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Methos' senses swam at the onslaught but some small voice of reason, some niggling sense, whispered in the back of his head that this was not right. Not right for him or for Duncan. That this was not what he wanted, not what he needed. Methos struggled to listen, and to disentangle himself from the hot press of bodies.

Now Duncan was unbuckling his belt, and now he was unbuttoning his jeans, reaching past the waistband, past the boxer shorts . . . and Methos found the fortitude, somewhere, somehow to pull back from the edge of madness, a place he had been before. Struggling with himself, he offered up the one thing he knew would act like cold water to the fire of the Highlander's ardor and his own–a snide comment.

"So . . . are we going to do it right here on the floor of a public bathroom. Joe's watching. Maybe he can sell tickets."

Duncan thrust him away just like Methos knew he would, but Methos felt the coldness of forced solitude, and a small part of him craved the fire, needed its warmth. But Methos ignored that small part of himself as he straightened his clothes, settled his composure and made his way towards the bathroom door. He could still feel Duncan's searing touch, his burning lips against his own. It was really amazing that there was nothing to commemorate those five minutes of unbridled passion. But then, maybe it wasn't amazing after all. Maybe it was just sad. Absently, Methos wondered if the grief he felt over it all would ever pass.

He looked back once to see Duncan leaning over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. One last thing found utterance, broke loose from behind the walls and burst through the dam. "What's her name?"

Duncan didn't look away from the mirror. "Josephine," he replied quietly.

"She's pretty. She looks a lot like Tessa."

"How would you know?" MacLeod asked bitterly. "You didn't know Tessa."

"You're right, of course. I must have seen a picture or something...." Methos trailed off awkwardly. "Anyway, I'm happy for you. You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone . . ." better than me.

Methos never finished that sentence. Instead, he turned and headed out of the bathroom–and two things happened simultaneously as he walked through that door: he smiled tiredly at Joe, and his eyes unconsciously sought Angel at the table.

"You didn't have to do that to him you know," Joe chided.

But Methos wasn't listening. Angel was gone.

"Joe, where's Angel?" Methos felt his stomach flip-flop, and flop again before finally settling itself in knots. Had Angel left?

Joe looked at Methos speculatively. "He left. About five minutes ago."

Methos looked shell-shocked, as if too much had happened in a too short a length of time for his mind to process it all.

"Joe, I have to go. I'll catch you later."

Joe watched his friend rush to the counter, grab his coat and leave the bar. He smiled reassuringly at Duncan's date, hoping that the woman didn't decide to pull a disappearing act too. Joe couldn't really blame her if she did. She looked like she was more than a little unnerved.

Joe sighed and headed into the bathroom to talk Duncan down from the ledge.

+

Methos rushed out of Joe's. Maybe if he was quick enough he could catch Angel. The cold, impersonal street mocked him as he looked up and down the block in vain. Had the kid driven here? Had he come by taxi? Where had he said he was staying again? Think, dammit. What was the name of that hotel? Methos sighed, oddly distraught, as if he had just lost an invaluable thing. Angel.

Angel.

"Looking for me?"

Methos spun around, and an irrepressibly crooked smile lit his face. "I thought you had left."

"Well, I did. I was leaving . . . but then I changed my mind." Angel shrugged a shoulder in embarrassment. Actually, he had realized he had no right to be mad at this man, and decided to return. He wasn't sure what was going on between Methos and Duncan MacLeod. Methos claimed it was over, but obviously–obviously–it wasn't. Angel didn't know what love lay between the two of them, or hate, or if love could cancel all hatred, and hatred all love. What he did know was that he had to find out what Methos had done to offend the Powers, and he couldn't do it from a distance. Jealousy on his part over Methos' relationship with Duncan would only serve to make his task more difficult.

"Listen, it's still early," Methos said with a suggestive grin. "I know this great club that the grad students frequent. What do you say?"

"I don't dance," Angel objected quickly.

Methos just raised a hand to his ear as if he couldn't hear him. "Good." He threw an arm around Angel's shoulder and steered him towards his car.

"Come on. I'll drive."

+

The last of the wait staff had gone home, and the bar looked abandoned without its usual hustle and bustle of people. Most of the lights were out. The chairs were propped up on top of the tables. Mike was the only one left in the place, and Joe was just about ready to call it a night.

He looked up from adding the nightly figures as he sensed someone watching him. There was a silhouette by the door of a friend, lost in the shadows.

"Mac, what brings you back here?" Joe already knew the answer, but he asked anyway. It was clear Duncan needed to talk, and as his friend, Joe was eager to listen. He was more than a little worried about his Immortal.

"Just needed someone to talk to, Joe. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course, buddy." Joe walked over to the hard liquor, grabbed a bottle of Scotch and two shot glasses.

"Mike, you can head out. Mac will help me lock up."

Mike raised a hand in acknowledgment, shrugged on his coat and headed for the door.

"Good night."

"Night, Mike." Joe abandoned his perch behind the bar and invited Duncan to sit with him at a table. Duncan pulled the two chairs off the top so the two of them could sit down.

"So what's up?" Joe asked as he poured both of them a shot. He pushed a glass in front of his friend.

Duncan was looking down at the table, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He raised his head at the question, though, and Joe felt the piercing sting of sympathy, seeing the defeated look in his friend's eyes. Strangely, those eyes reminded Joe of how Duncan had looked when Richie died, and Tessa. Duncan looked like he had just lost his best friend.

"He applied for sabbatical."

"What? Who?"

"Methos. He put in for a sabbatical at the University for next year. I wasn't supposed to know but one of the professors in his department let it slip. I think he's leaving."

"Wait a minute, Mac. Methos isn't leaving, and anyway, he wouldn't leave without telling you first."

"Why not? He won't even talk to me these days. He won't even . . ." Duncan trailed off then quickly picked up his glass and knocked off the shot, motioning for Joe to provide another.

"He won't talk to me. I don't know what he's doing or what he's planning on doing."

"Mac, just give it a little time. Methos always gets mad at you. He'll get over it sooner or later. He always does."

"Not this time, Joe."

Joe looked at Duncan speculatively. "Mac, I think you're getting a few things mixed up. Methos is your friend. He'll always be your friend. Whatever else falls by the wayside, your friendship will never change."

"But that's not enough."

Joe sighed. Things were more serious than they seemed if Duncan was actually admitting to his Watcher that he wanted Methos as more than just a friend. "What do you mean exactly?"

Duncan knocked back another shot, and when he started talking again, Joe had to make a quick mental leap to figure out his meaning.

"He's sleeping with him."

"Who?" Joe had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.

"Methos. Angel."

"Mac, come on! Methos told me they just met today. I know the old man is easy, but he's not that easy." Joe had to cut off his chuckle. Obviously, Duncan was too upset to appreciate the humor in the situation.

"Joe, you know that double quickening we took?"

What's he talking about now? Joe wondered, exasperated. Geez-us can we have a linear conversation, or do we have to jump around from topic to topic like two Mexican jumping beans? Joe sighed inaudibly. He had a headache.

"Of course. What about it?"

"Well, it's had a number of side effects that we haven't exactly told you about." Duncan paused. "Like, I can recognize Methos' presence."

Joe shook his head. He had figured that one out.

"And I can tell when he's in trouble, when he's taken a quickening, when he dies."

Joe gave a nod to that one also.

"And," Duncan added slowly, "I can tell when he's making love to somebody."

"What?"

"I can feel it. Almost like I'm him. Like I'm there too, in a dream."

Joe was too stunned to speak, but his mind flew across the possibilities a mile a minute. If Mac can . . . then Methos can . . . Joe blinked in astonishment. Holy shit! This gave a whole new dimension to Methos' depression over the last six months while Duncan was with Joi. Joe grudgingly increased his opinion of the old man. He knew that if it had been him, the link would have driven him crazy.

"So you're saying...?"

"That I know he's sleeping with Angel."

Joe shook his head, trying valiantly to get to the crux of the issue. "Did he say he is?"

"No."

"But you still think he is?"

Duncan nodded, absently playing with his empty glass.

"Why does it matter to you if he is or he isn't? I don't see that it's any of your business, really."

"Joe, I can't lose him."

"I don't think you're being fair. For the past few years you've had Methos all to yourself, and half the time, you acted as if you didn't really want him. All of a sudden, someone else expresses an interest in him and you object. Maybe it's better that you two just leave it alone. Stay friends. You both would probably be happier that way."

"You don't understand."

"What's there not to understand?"

"Joe, I can't lose him. I can't stand to watch someone else touching him."

Joe looked at his friend askance. "No, I guess I don't understand then. What about Josephine? What are you doing with her?"

"I just brought her with me because I knew Methos was going to be here with him."

"So you were going to show him that you don't need him and it backfired?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"I don't know what to tell you. For years now you've dated other people–women–and Methos waited for you patiently. In fact, I've never seen Methos look at anybody seriously other than you over the past few years. Maybe it's your turn to wait–"

"No!"

"Mac, calm down." Joe was getting exasperated. His Immortal was making no sense. "I can't see anyone meaning as much to Methos as you do. So he spends some time with Angel. So what? How long do any of your affairs last?"

"What about Alexa?"

"Alexa?" Joe blinked. "What does Alexa have to do with any of this? Alexa was way before any of this started." Joe was sure he had whiplash.

"You're right." Duncan was looking down, playing with his shot glass. Joe wished his friend would look up so he could see his eyes, see where all this was coming from.

"But, remember how he was with her, Joe? He just fell head over heals. One minute he was here, the next, he was gone. He's like that. It's one of the best things about him."

"What?" Now, Joe was totally confused.

"The way he loves people. I think it's the only thing that's kept him human after all these years. I think that's why he doesn't let too many people close to him."

"And . . ." Joe prompted trying to get to the crux of Duncan's convoluted reasoning.

Duncan jumped out of his seat and walked across the room to the stage and back again. Joe sat at the table nonplussed.

"What if he falls for this Angel the way he fell for Alexa!" Duncan exploded. "Methos . . . Methos wouldn't leave him. If he loved him, Methos would stay with him for the rest of his mortal life! He could be gone for fifty years or more!"

"Mac, calm down." Joe got up from the table and walked over to Duncan, placing a hand on his friend's arm. "You can't compare this situation to Alexa. Yes, Methos went off the deep end there, but that was a unique situation. She was dying." Joe tried to offer his Immortal every assurance, but in the back of his mind, a niggling little voice was saying that Duncan could have a point–that Methos was just the type to get swept up by passionate gestures. Joe felt it was one of the reasons the old man tried to act so cynical, and why he never wanted to get involved with other Immortals. Maybe it was the reason he stayed with Kronos for so long. Methos was loyal, and he loved passionately, maybe to a fault. Just look at the situation with Duncan . . .

Joe could tell his arguments were just causing the Highlander more distress. Duncan wasn't really listening to the sense behind his words. Joe was puzzled. This unreasonable behavior seemed so unlike his normally rational Immortal. He decided to try a different tack.

"How about this? I'll talk to Methos. I'll try to convince him to talk to you. The two of you can work this out. Regardless of what you think you are picking up through that link of yours, I'm not convinced there's anything serious going on between Methos and Angel. Truthfully, I think you're overreacting."

"You'll talk to him?" Joe nodded his head. "Thanks, Joe."

Joe could tell that his offer had done little to assuage his friend's depression. He had one more thing he could do for Duncan that might cheer him up. He had intended to give him something special for Christmas, but it seemed a good idea to offer it up now.

"Hey, I have something for you, buddy." Joe indicated that Duncan should wait a moment. He walked over to his office and retrieved a small, paper-wrapped parcel.

"What is it?" Duncan asked as Joe handed it to him.

"I have one of Darius' personal journals. Technically, it should be in the archives at Watcher headquarters but because it's a personal journal and not a Watcher journal, I haven't been in any rush to get it there." Joe waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "I've had it for years, but recently, I've been able to make some connections that make it relevant to you. I thought you might like to read it."

"Why me?"

"Well, it's about Darius and a monk called Michael Augustus, and it has a lot of references to you in there."

"Really?" Duncan perked up in interest. "Who's Michael Augustus?"

"Well, that's the kicker. I recently found out that Michael Augustus was one of Methos' aliases."

"Methos knew Darius?"

"Apparently so. He never mentioned it to me, but there's a lot the old man doesn't see fit to mention." Joe was proud of himself. He was sure Methos hadn't expected him to figure this out. The old man had been clueless about Darius' personal journals when he had offered up his own. Chalk one up for the mortals.

"How did you find out?"

"Through some attenuated cross-referencing from a project Methos asked me to look into."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Duncan looked at the book carefully, reverently. It was in Latin, and it would take him some time to get through it. Suddenly, everything didn't seem quite so hopeless. If he could only gain a little insight into Methos' mind! Understand him just a little bit better! Then, perhaps, they could get past this and back to the way things used to be.

"Thanks, Joe."

Joe was happy to see his friend look a little less despondent. He hoped the book would show him that Methos had cared about him for a long time and wouldn't just forget about him–even if there were someone new in his life.

"Mac, I also want to look into this double quickening more closely, do some research. I've been meaning to ever since it happened, and I've just kept putting it off. I want you to promise to tell me if anything else develops. I'll talk to Methos, too. Truth to tell, buddy, I think you're acting a little bit off your game, and maybe the double quickening has something to do with it."

Duncan nodded.

Joe walked over to get his coat. It was late. He wanted to head to his apartment and get some sleep. He had promised Methos he would meet him tomorrow for the faculty football game. If he didn't get home, get his prosthesis off and get some rest, he wasn't going to make it anywhere. Duncan followed him to the door. They said their goodbyes as Joe locked up.

"Let me know if you find anything," Duncan said quietly as they headed for their separate cars.

"Sure, buddy."

"And, Joe? Don't take too long. I feel . . . I can't breath, you know? I need . . . I need things to get back to the way they were."

"I know, Mac. Don't worry. I'll have something for you soon."


	8. Chapter 8

Ah, love, let us be true  
To one another! for the world, which seems  
To lie before us like a land of dreams,  
So various, so beautiful, so new,  
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,  
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;  
And we are here as on a darkling plain  
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,  
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Dover Beach, Matthew Arnold

+

"The joy of living, joy of fun! Joy of Pepsi on your tongue! The greatest taste sensation under the sun!"

"Stop it!" Angel hissed. People were staring at them. Angel steered Methos out the door of the club and into the cold night air.

"Relax! Geez, you'd think you were a hundred years old, Mr. I don't talk, I don't dance, I don't sing." Methos stopped walking, causing Angel to halt abruptly too. The Immortal turned, grabbed Angel by the arms and stared at him intently.

"You know what you need? A life!" Methos spun away chortling. Angel sighed. His companion had definitely had one too many of those tall pink drinks with the two umbrellas.

Methos started singing that Pepsi commercial again. Loudly. Angel winced.

"You know that Faith Hill? She's a hottie! I'd buy anything she's selling!"

Pepsi. Faith Hill. All of this hilarity on the Immortal's caused by the simple suggestion that Methos drink soda instead of alcohol. If Angel had known that Methos was going to take it as a cue to sing every Pepsi commercial ever created, he would have kept his mouth shut.

They had gotten to the club with no difficulty. It wasn't very far from Joe's, actually. The bouncer at the door seemed to know Methos and had let the two of them right in. Although Angel had had serious misgivings when Methos suggested that they go dancing, he had to admit that he had been enjoying Methos' company and hadn't wanted the night to end. If that meant that he had to put up with a little loud noise and some small amount of socializing, he hadn't been discouraged. Thinking back on the mad twinkle in Methos' eyes, he should have known better.

Everything started innocuously enough. They entered the club, they looked around, and they took up positions at the bar. The music was loud and current, the clientele under thirty. In fact, it looked to be almost entirely a college crowd. Methos seemed to know a lot of people that called him 'Professor Pierson' but who didn't seem surprised to see him.

It went downhill from there. First, at the bar–Methos ordered drinks for himself, for Angel and for two pretty coeds sitting across the counter. Angel turned to pick up his drink and when he turned back around, Methos had disappeared. The bartender expected him to pay for the drinks, and he got stuck explaining to both girls why he had sent them drinks but didn't want their phone number. Right after the girls stormed off–they seemed very upset–Methos miraculously reappeared, batted his eyelashes at Angel coquettishly, and thanked him for the drink.

Then, Methos dragged him out onto the dance floor. There were so many people on the floor that no one was really dancing; they were merely jumping up and down and wiggling in place. Because of the press of people, no one was relegated to any one partner. Methos sandwiched Angel between himself and this slinky, sexy, half dressed blonde that reminded Angel, oddly, of Buffy.

And Methos insisted that Angel jump up and down with the rest of them. Oh, Angel tried standing still stoically, but then Methos pressed his body against his and rubbed up and down the front of him, and the blonde rubbed herself up and down his back. Methos' hand accidentally brushed the outline of his aching hard-on, and before Angel knew what was happening, he was jumping up and down with the best of them.

After what seemed like an eternity of jumping, of loud sweaty provocation, Methos dragged him off the dance floor. After downing three of those pink drinks with the two umbrellas, he subjected Angel to the final indignity. Methos pinched the butt of one of the girls circulating through the crowd and then, simply, disappeared, leaving Angel looking like the culprit. They had been asked to leave after that, though nicely. Angel had a serious suspicion that Methos and the bouncer were in cahoots.

Which had all led to Methos standing outside the club singing Pepsi commercials to Angel's acute embarrassment. The vampire paused a moment and then smiled. It had all been rather funny, in retrospect. Angel guessed that these were the kinds of things that went on when you were in college or when you hung out with a brother or a best friend. It was nice to be part of life for a change.

Angel had allowed his attention to wander, a look of brooding introspection to cloud his face but, apparently, that had been a bad idea because it incited Methos to more antics. The Immortal seemed to need a lot of attention.

Methos grabbed Angel around the waist and intertwined the fingers of their free hands. He twirled Angel around madly. Angel felt like he was in the twilight zone, like this evening had been some skewed episodic edition of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Maybe Methos would want to rob a bank next.

Angel burst into laughter at the thought.

Methos stopped dancing and studied Angel, his green eyes twinkling. He smiled happily, and although Angel knew that his own heart did not beat, it did. It did. The streets were deserted and the moon was shining brightly. It was as if they were the only two people in the whole world.

"That's what I wanted."

"What."

"To hear you laugh. Your life needs a little more laughter."

How did he know?

Methos draped an arm around Angel's shoulders and steered him towards his parked car.

"Let's get out of here. It's late." Methos fished for his keys in the pocket of his jeans. "Did you leave a car at Joe's?" he continued. "Do you want me to drive you there or back to your hotel?" Methos jingled his car keys in the air questioningly.

Methos was facing Angel, looking directly into his darkly quiet eyes. They were almost exactly of a height, and the intensity of such close regard made Angel's stomach flip flop. When Methos brought a hand up and placed it, light as gossamer wings, on Angel's chest, right over his heart, it felt as if the old Immortal had just selected him, or knighted him, or claimed him as his own. The invitation was sweetly implicit.

Angel had just opened his mouth to answer when he saw Methos stiffen.

"Adam, what's wrong?" Angel looked around quickly, trying to identify the problem. If the look on Methos' face was any indication, they were about to have trouble.

Methos moved past him like lightning and over to the back of his car. He opened the trunk and pulled out his long coat. He shrugged into it quickly. The night had suddenly become perilous, sober, like a cold splash of water to the face.

"Angel, listen to me. There's something I have to do. I don't have time to explain." He handed Angel his keys. "Take my car. Drive yourself to your hotel. I'll call you in the morning about the car and the football game." He turned, closed the trunk and moved quickly to the other side of the car.

"Adam, wait–"

"Angel, I need you to trust me. Please. Go. Now."

"Okay, but–"

Methos cut him off abruptly. "Thank you."

The tall Immortal turned and hurried down the street at a steady clip. In no time, he had turned the corner and was out of sight. Angel cursed under his breath. There was no way he was going to just drive off and let Methos handle some sort of trouble all by himself. He decided to follow him, staying just out of sight. He would make sure that nothing bad happened to his newfound friend.

Angel paused. How ironic. Here he was looking to protect Methos, the very person he was supposed to kill according to the Powers That Be. Angel thought about the entire night, one of the most special nights of his long, undead life. He realized the truth immediately: if Methos needed his help to survive, he would give it, gladly, and never regret it. Tomorrow, he may find out that this whole evening had been a facade, a joke on the soulful vampire with no life. Tomorrow, he may find out that everything he had learned about Methos was untrue, but until then, he would do what his conscience said was right–and his heart, his rhythmless heart. Though it did not beat, Angel would listen to it, nonetheless.

He put the car keys in his pocket and headed off at a lope, moving silently from inky shadow to inky shadow, in pursuit of Methos. What was it that St. Augustine had said in The Eight Questions? Ah, yes, that every visible thing in the world is put under the charge of an angel.

How true.

+

One of the most invariable attributes of trendy bars and popular dance clubs is their penchant to be located in the most deteriorated, scarcely populated and shady areas of town. Methos silently thanked the fates for this predilection as he hurried down a deserted street. It was possible that the Immortal in the area was not looking for him–but how likely was that? Methos knew that because of all the trouble he was currently in, Joe would have alerted him immediately to any new Immortals arriving in Seacouver on legitimate business. Common sense told him that the Immortal was out looking for him and either did not have a Watcher, had a Watcher that he had ditched before getting to Seacouver, or had a Watcher who was in cahoots with him–or her.

Methos' primary objective was to lead trouble away from Angel. Over the course of a long life, he had learned it was never a good idea to involve mortals in the affairs of Immortals. Their lives were too delicate, transitory, and the loss of a mortal loved one too permanent, too tragic. Most Immortals adhered to this covenant implicitly. Even those Immortals who hunted regularly didn't go out of their way to harm bystanders. By putting distance between them, Angel would probably be safe, even though he had been seen with Methos and was now driving his car. That was unless the hunter was a real crackpot, like Kronos. Then no one was safe.

Of course, he was assuming Angel followed directions, and that was by no means certain. Methos shelved his concern for Angel and whether or not he had made it back to his hotel in one piece. He could not do anything else for the young man and, in fact, needed to devote all of his resources to the current situation. Methos continued to move away from the Immortal signature, feeling the tide of it ebb as he put distance between himself and his pursuer. Why did he move away? Methos had no desire to court trouble tonight. He was more inclined to avoid this hunter now and deal with him later, on his own terms and after discussing the situation with Joe. Advance intelligence usually made all the difference in war, and he didn't intend to walk into this war blind, if he could help it.

He did have one advantage. His sensory range for identifying other Immortals was strong. He could sense his own kind long before they could sense him. It probably had something to do with his age. The advantage differed depending upon the age and power of the other Immortal. It was always difficult to quantify such advantages in ability since large groups of disparate Immortals were never together long enough to test their powers. But Methos felt safe in assuming that due to his special abilities, he could escape his pursuer with the proper exercise of artfulness.

Methos stopped short as a street lamp flickered and went out, casting the immediate area into darkness. He shivered as presence licked his senses . . . in front of him? Methos quickly made a right turn and hurried down a street that would lead eventually to a more frequented area of town, according to his sense of direction.

"Damn," Methos swore harshly under his breath. There were two of them. It didn't seem likely he was going to be able to avoid trouble. He stuck a hand in an inner pocket of his coat and deftly removed the safety latch from his gun. If this turned into a two on one situation, he would need every advantage.

Cursing as he felt another signature ahead of him, Methos hesitated. He wasn't sure if it was one of the same signatures he had felt before or whether there were now three Immortals closing in on him. He turned left, suspecting they were trying to herd him somewhere. Methos was beginning to doubt the odds of his survival.

He began looking for a public building to take refuge in–a store, a police station, a hospital. A church would be too much to hope for. He would even settle for a taxicab. Ironically, an area that had seemed so conveniently deserted ten minutes ago now seemed like a concrete jungle with no help, no sanctuary available.

Hurrying down a dark street, past vacant lots, abandoned buildings and a vagrant on the corner, his pace quickened from a race walk to a light run. If something didn't give soon, he was going to start running in earnest.

"Damn it," Methos swore again as a man appeared in the distance. An Immortal.

"Shit." Was every Immortal in the world in Seacouver? On his ass? He was going to kill Joe the next time he saw him . . . if there was a next time.

He did an about-face and raced away from his pursuer. Finally! Some luck! A taxi rounded the corner and stopped at the red light. Methos had never been so happy to see a cab in his entire life. The small, dual-purpose light on the roof of the yellow vehicle indicated that it was available. Methos slowed his pace and put on his best 'corporate executive lost in the ghetto' look and raised a hand to hail the driver.

"Taxi!"

The taxi, which had had its blinker on to indicate its intention to make a right turn, headed, instead, towards Methos as the stop light changed to green.

Methos looked around quickly for his pursuers. The Immortal he had spotted heading towards him a moment ago was now coming down the street at a gallop. He's close. Methos committed the man's features to memory: tall, blonde, long billowing coat–but didn't every Immortal have a long billowing coat?–sharp, handsome features. He grabbed the door handle on the passenger side as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

He was going to make it!

He pulled on the door. It was locked. He bent over and tried to peer though the front passenger side window at the driver. The windows were tinted, obscuring his view. Finally, the window started rolling down slowly–it must be electric–and the last thing Methos thought as he looked into the vehicle through the now-open window and the driver cocked the gun and shot him twice in the chest was, Damn, she's a woman!

Damn.

+

The very thing Angel had feared the most had come to pass, suddenly, brutally, as he stood concealed by the side of a dumpster. He watched in horror as Methos hit the hard concrete like a marionette that had had its strings abruptly cut. Before he could rationally wrap his mind around the situation, he was moving towards the cab, towards Methos, at a run.

The driver got out of the cab. It was a woman! Angel heard her call to a man hurrying down the street in her direction.

"Hurry up! Help me get him into the car," the woman called out.

Angel watched the man pull a sword out of his coat. He was going to reach Methos before him! In a blinding flash of mental insight, Angel recalled what the boy messenger had told him: that the only way to kill an Immortal was to cut off his head.

The vampire did the first thing that came to mind.

"Seacouver Police!" he hollered. "Back away from the victim!"

Both his adversaries froze. Angel slowed to a walk and made as if he were reaching for a badge or a gun.

"I said, back AWAY from the victim!"

The two perpetrators exchanged a glance. The woman moved, jumping back into the car and keying the ignition. The man with the sword hopped over Methos' fallen body and leapt into the moving car.

"Stop or I'll shoot!" Angel thought he would add that for good measure. The car accelerated down the street and was soon out of sight.

"Stop or I'll shoot? Don't you think you're getting a little carried away there?"

Angel rushed to Methos' side. The old Immortal was coughing up blood and had difficulty speaking. He was making those odd, breathless sounds that told Angel a bullet had punctured a lung.

"Be quiet." Angel pulled him into his lap and smoothed his hair away from his face.

"You have to keep these performances simple...." He trailed off, overcome by a fit of breathless coughing.

"I said be quiet," Angel admonished him.

Methos raised a hand and grabbed Angel's arm.

"No. Listen to me," he wheezed. "No matter what happens, don't call for help. Not the police. Not an ambulance. I need you to trust me. Please. I'll be okay. I know how this looks, but I'm not dying. And I'm not crazy. I will wake up. Promise me you won't call for help." Methos coughed up blood. "Promise me."

"I promise. Don't worry. I understand."

Angel held Methos close to him. There wasn't a lot of blood. Just some small amount soaking the front of the charcoal gray sweater that Angel had found so handsome fifteen minutes ago, and, of course, the blood bubbling up in his mouth. The bloody augury of death.

The unreality of the situation was startling. Two men huddled together in the middle of the street while the traffic light changed from red to green and back to red again. It was almost funny that no one had come by to offer help, that not one car drove by. Had they been here like this forever? Each moment seemed an eternity as the sonorous sound of Methos' heartbeat pounded in Angel's ears. It stuttered, it faltered, and as Angel felt Methos die, it felt as if a part of him had died too.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The gunshots must have attracted someone's attention. Angel realized staying at the scene of the crime was a bad idea. Anybody could come by at any minute.

Angel didn't know how long it would take for Methos to revive. His perspective was oddly dispersed, as if everything was happening to him in slow motion, and he could not think clearly. Methos' dying had unnerved him. How unlike vampires these Immortals were! An injured vampire could get knocked unconscious or could sustain an injury that would kill a living person but since a vampire was already dead, there was no dying involved. Waiting for Methos to revive was gut-wrenchingly nauseating, almost analogous to watching Doyle forfeit his life. Angel did not like the feeling at all. His mind shied away from the thought that this feeling would be exactly what he'd be feeling again if he followed his instructions from the Powers.

Carefully moving Methos to the side, Angel got to one knee and scooped Methos up. He glanced around quickly to see if there was anyone watching, anybody that would realize how strange it was for one six foot and some odd inches tall man to be carrying another six foot some odd inches tall man so easily. But it didn't really matter who saw because their need to get out of the vicinity was extreme. Angel took off with his burden at a fast clip, hurrying towards the car and keeping to the sheltering shadows.

+

Methos awoke in a car, his head pillowed on something soft. He gasped and reached a hand to his head.

"Take it easy."

Angel.

Methos got up slowly. He had been lying with his head in Angel's lap in the back seat of his car. He looked around. They were parked in front of his apartment building.

"How did you know where I live?" Methos still felt the confusion of recent death.

"Wallet."

"Oh, yeah." Methos grinned sheepishly. He straightened up and reached for the door handle. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"Come on upstairs. I'll explain everything."

They exited and locked the car. Angel followed Methos up the stairs to the front door of his apartment. The night was preternaturally quiet. After all that had happened, the silence seemed particularly portentous.

Methos unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer. He glanced back as he noticed that Angel was not right behind him.

"What are you waiting for? Come in."

Decisions are made–small ones, large ones–with no foreknowledge of the upcoming good or ill of the result. On the precipice of fate, actions are taken, allowances given, to be kind, or sometimes, to be cruel.

So it was that Methos, the world's oldest Immortal, the man with a the most experience with things unnatural, decided to invite Angel, the vampire, the personification of his worst nightmare, into his home.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

Main Entry: ta·boo  
Variant(s): also ta·bu /t&-'bü, ta-/  
Function: adjective  
Etymology: Tongan tabu  
Date: 1777  
1: set apart as sacred; forbidden for general use; placed under a prohibition or bar.

Webster's College Dictionary

+

"Make yourself at home," Methos said to Angel as they walked through the foyer and into the living room.

Angel looked around curiously. The apartment was a very interesting place. As he entered the main room, his eyes roamed over odd displays of art, eclectic furnishings, books . . . and more books. The most impressive thing about the apartment was the books scattered everywhere.

It was a great apartment, big, with high ceilings and a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. This first floor was one large room with four hugely arched floor-to-ceiling windows. The living area–a leather couch, a chair with ottoman and a middle table–was set up by a fireplace. Off to one side and quite near where the fire would be were two leather chairs and a chess table sporting a game in progress. The kitchen was separated by L-shaped counter space. There was a dining table and chairs there, too. Two huge bookcases dominated one corner of the room and a desk with a laptop computer stood nearby on the far side of double glass doors that led to the balcony. There were also two closed doors on the left side of the room as you were going towards the stairs. One, Angel surmised, led to a bathroom. The other room was probably a second bedroom.

Angel took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. Upon turning, he noticed a cat watching him, owl-eyed, from its perch on the mid-step of the winding stairwell. Angel jumped, disconcerted. He hated cats.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Methos called out as he walked over to the kitchen area and threw his keys on the counter. "I can make coffee," he offered.

"That's fine." Angel stood by the counter and watched as Methos went about little domestic things: setting up the coffee machine, pulling out mugs, getting the coffee grounds out of the refrigerator. He started the machine and then looked up at Angel and smiled.

"While the coffee machine is doing its thing, I'm going to go upstairs and wash up. Change my shirt." He poked a finger into one of the holes in his sweater ruefully. "I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable. The remote controls for the television and the stereo are over there." He pointed towards the living room table. "Feel free." With a parting look over his shoulder, Methos bounded up the stairs.

Angel wandered around slowly. There were so many things to see! The apartment had almost the air of a curio shop. But of all the interesting things, Angel's attention was first riveted by the painting that hung over the fireplace.

The picture portrayed a bedchamber by night and a large couch where something lay sleeping. In the foreground, holding back the curtains with one hand and tilting in the other a flaming lamp, a pale girl leaned forward, her slenderness rigid in lines of anxiety and expectation, endeavoring to see . . . The picture was labeled: Noli me spectare.

Angel recognized the portrayal. It was the legend of Cupid and Psyche. The maiden had been left as a sacrifice for a demon, and was accordingly carried off. In a mountain mansion, cared for by invisible sprites, the girl was visited in darkness by one who claimed to be her husband. He was only the best of lovers, but warned her: Never attempt to look on me.

Thus the title of the picture: See me not.

Persuaded by desire and doubt to ignore the ban, Psyche lit a lamp, and beheld her spouse while he lay sleeping. He was Cupid, the god of love himself, handsome and perfect. And in her amazement, her shaking hand let drop a scorch of oil upon his shoulder. He woke, he disowned her, and into the unkind world she was cast out lamenting.

See me not. Never attempt to look on me. See me not. How . . . interesting for Methos to have such a picture so prominently displayed. Angel had to drag his gaze away from it; he had become so transfixed.

He felt something rub against his leg.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, jumping away from the cat that had made its way over to inspect him. "Shoo!" Angel waved at the cat, trying to encourage it to go about its own business. The cat was unfazed. It sat and looked at him, studying him carefully, sizing him up and laying his soul bare in the way of felines. Angel didn't know what came over him; he just wanted the cat to go away. So he changed into his vampire faced and growled at it.

"Grrrr!"

The cat was unaffected, nonchalant even, and showed its disdain by commencing to wash itself regally. Angel was amazed. Never had his vampire face failed to scare an animal silly. After all, there can be only one king in the jungle. He kept a wary eye on the strange animal and returned to his inspection of the apartment.

He wandered towards the bronze statuette on the pedestal in the foyer. It was a woman. The woman was perched on her left leg in an arabesque position with the right leg extended behind. Both arms were extended out from her sides gracefully, for balance, and the lines of her body were long and comely. Her face was lovely, too–but she had snakes for hair. The piece was called Madness.

Angel moved on, to view the rest of the artwork spread about the first floor of the apartment. There was a small charcoal piece in the style of Michelangelo, and an oil painting in the style of Picasso among many other things. Nothing was signed. Angel was quite the art aficionado and his figures itched to inspect the backs of the pictures to confirm their origins. He suspected they were original pieces from the artists themselves. But he only suspected it because he knew of Methos' nature. The entire decor of the apartment was like a big joke on the uninitiated, those not in the know. Angel could tell that Methos had a wicked sense of humor and probably got a great kick out of displaying un-cataloged and priceless works of art as if they were nothing.

Angel moved towards the bookcases. The massive bookcases had almost a life of their own. Angel loved books. They were the one passion that he allowed himself in a passionless life. He feasted his eyes on a collection of books that would make any bibliophile envious. Poetry. Philosophy. Byron. Borges. Plato. Hume. Spinoza. Nietzsche. Berlin. Marquez–and on, and on.

The most interesting aspect of the collection was that the books on the top shelves were all original first editions in the author's native language. Spanish, German, French, Greek, Latin–the number of languages was dizzying. Did Methos speak all these languages? It was an amazing thought. Angel picked out a book. It was St. Augustine's City of God in Latin. It was in pristine condition–and it was signed! Angel picked another volume off the top shelves. Another great book in pristine condition.

Angel knelt down to look at the books on the bottom shelves. These shelves contained mostly translations into French and English. Angel picked up a book. It was a translation of some of Michelangelo's poetry. He flipped through it. Unlike the first editions on the top shelves that were in pristine condition, these translations were marked up in the margins in what Angel suspected was Methos' handwriting. Words were circled and lines drawn to comments such as "I think not!" and "What?" and "Hah!" Angel thought he must have been commenting on the translations of various words. He laughed to himself at the picture in his head of Methos, the critical commentator.

At the top of the staircase, Methos stood for a moment and watched Angel surreptitiously. He had changed into a long sleeved black t-shirt that he knew looked good on him. The staircase offered a great vantage point for viewing the entire room. It gave Methos an opportunity to consider Angel; to watch him walk around the apartment–to see which of his things attracted the young man's attention. Methos could tell a lot about a person by what drew their notice.

He was intrigued by the amount of time Angel spent at the bookcases. There was nothing more attractive than a scholarly individual. In fact, Angel was just very attractive in general–very attractive and one of the most interesting people that Methos had met in ages. Methos considered the electricity that existed between them: eyes that said that they knew him, recognized him; a touch so oddly intimate. Had this been any other time in his life, had the debacle with MacLeod not been so fresh to mind and heart, Methos knew he would have explored this new option–thoroughly. And still might, he thought to himself jauntily. Now that Angel knew that he was Immortal, maybe he could afford to pursue it, but not in front of Duncan. Not in Seacouver. Methos acknowledged that the Highlander would not tolerate it.

And Methos knew sadness at the thought. It was becoming more and more unlikely that he was going to be able to maintain his friendship with MacLeod.

Methos descended the stairs into the living room. The cat meowed its opinion from across the room. Methos walked to the kitchen to make the coffee.

"What did you do to Bestat?" Methos called out.

Angel looked up from the bookcase confused. "Who?"

"My cat. Bestat. I'd try to stay on her good side if I were you. It's not easy, trust me, but better to try than not." Methos chuckled. "I had a wife once. Bestat hated her. Made her life miserable."

"You're married?"

Methos thought this a good segue into an explanation of his unusual nature. "Well, from what happened tonight, you know I'm somewhat unusual." Angel shrugged noncommittally. "In fact, I'm Immortal." Methos watched Angel for a reaction. "There are others like me, though not too many. I've lived a very long time. I've had lots of wives over the years, lived many different places."

"How do you like your coffee?" Methos asked as an aside.

"Black is fine," Angel said.

Methos made them two cups then indicated that Angel should join him on the couch. Angel sat down on one end. Methos, before sitting down at the other end of the couch, lit a fire in the fireplace. Afterwards, he picked up his narrative.

"When I say 'Immortal', I mean that I can be killed but will come back to life. Like tonight." He smiled ruefully. "The only way for me to die permanently is to cut off my head. That's why that guy you saw had a sword. I carry a sword, too, almost all the time in fact. Unfortunately, all the Immortals are engaged in something of a war. We challenge each other and fight one-on-one to the death."

"So they were trying to kill you?" Angel asked quietly.

"Perhaps. Actually, it is more likely that they wanted to capture me for some reason."

"Capture you? For what?"

"I don't know exactly. Immortals usually try to keep their real identities secret. I'm very protective of my identity, not many people know anything about me. Last week, an unknown Immortal sent a group of Immortals looking for me with instructions to kidnap me. I am currently looking into who this unknown Immortal is and, of course, what he wants."

"Maybe I can help," Angel offered.

Methos looked at him speculatively.

"I am an investigator."

"True. Perhaps. We'll see. Usually, we don't involve mortals in Immortal affairs, but that woman driving the taxi was mortal...."

"How do you know?" Angel asked quickly.

"Immortals have a type of presence, a signature if you will, that other Immortals can pick up when they are close by. If an Immortal were to come to my door I'd feel their presence before they knocked. That's how we recognize one another."

Angel nodded.

"Anyway, where was I? Do you have any particular questions?"

"Your wife?"

"Ah, yes," Methos chuckled. "I've been married numerous times. Once I was married to this woman named Helen. We lived in Germany at the time and she raised dogs. Weimaraners. Bestat was outraged, never warmed up to her at all. She gave Helen hell. And the dogs, they never got over it...."

"I think it was the reason Helen left me. She said it was my bookishness but I know it was Bestat's doing. I was disconsolate for months afterwards." Methos sighed dramatically. Angel felt that there was more to the story but didn't know how to ask and didn't want to pry.

"That was a very long time ago, though. I haven't married anyone lately." Methos sipped coffee and looked at Angel speculatively.

"You seem to be taking this very well. In fact, I can't remember anyone ever taking it better."

"I am surprised," Angel assured him quickly. "I think I'm still in shock from the whole dying thing earlier...." Angel trailed off, trying to give Methos an impression of uncertainty. Angel felt guilty about having to mislead Methos regarding how much of his life he was already familiar with.

"Listen, dying is nothing new to me," Methos tried to reassure him. "I've died in just about every way that a person can die. I've starved to death, died of thirst, been shot to death and taken a few arrows through the heart. I've been burned at the stake and hung. I've been buried alive...."

Methos plied Angel with a few pithy tales of life as an Immortal. He made it sound funny, though in most instances the reality was tragic. His aim was to make Angel comfortable with the idea and gauge how far he could be trusted. Methos wanted to know whether he could trust Angel to keep the existence of Immortals secret.

"You understand it's important that this be kept quiet?"

"Of course."

They spoke of the nature of life and of death. Angel got up the nerve to ask Methos exactly how old he was but Methos simply responded that he did not like to 'date' himself and laughingly quoted Hermann Bahr who declared that, "The one duty is to be modern."

So Angel asked instead the one question that he most wanted to know, the one thing that haunted him. "Do you remember? All those people you leave behind. The ones you meet and spend time with from years past. Do you remember them?" Angel asked quietly. Do you remember me?

"I remember," Methos answered seriously. "Immortals have a keen memory, photographic in fact. I remember the people who've touched my life. It takes a very, very long time for those images to blur. Sometimes I wish I could forget."

They sat there companionably for a time. And Methos asked, "So what are you doing next week for Thanksgiving? Are you going to take a break from your case and go home to see your family, or what?" Methos knew that his holidays would be different this year with the MacLeod situation and all. Perhaps...perhaps Methos would have Angel over next week if he did not have plans to go home.

"Actually, I don't have any family," Angel stated shortly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, look, it's okay. I didn't mean to bite your head off. I lost my family in a tragedy that I caused. It was a long time ago but I still feel . . ." Angel trailed off.

"Responsible? Guilty?" Methos saw how upset Angel had gotten all of a sudden and wanted to offer him something, some words of wisdom or, at least, some understanding. "Listen, the details are your own business but take it from me, you can't change the past. The best you can do is live with it and do the best you can do now." Methos spoke with strange profundity. He knew better than most how easy it is to wallow in past actions. How the past never lets go.

"I know. It's just that sometimes I wish I could go back and do it all over again." Angel shrugged bitterly. "I try to make up for all the things I've done but nothing ever seems to be enough."

Methos was surprised. He wouldn't have expected such a young man to have so many obvious regrets. What had he done? How bad a life could he have possibly lived? He wasn't in jail; he seemed hale and whole. What was his story? Perhaps some people would have been turned off by such obvious emotional baggage, but not Methos. He was only curious. He knew that what most mortals considered tragic, irredeemable, was only a teardrop in a very big bucket.

He tried to let his empathy show. "There is no such thing as atonement for past acts. Even the idea of redemption is illusory in the way it is most often presented–as some forgiveness that can be obtained outside of oneself. Each person hurt is an individual wronged. If you kill someone, how can you ever make it up to that person? That person is dead. Nothing you do will ever change that fact.

"I'm not saying that you do something wrong and just forget about it. You never forget, but you acknowledge that you can never really make it up to that person. It is the first step in learning to live with yourself. After the acknowledgment, if you choose to live a good life, choose to do good things, it is a choice made in positivity, not just to assuage a guilty conscience.

"After all, guilt is purposeless. You can't undo things. All you can do is choose to live without destruction. And more than that, simply, you can live.

"Believe me I know." Methos had moved marginally closer to Angel, turned sideways on the couch to face him. He reached out tentatively to touch his arm. And Angel felt comforted, like there was the possibility for understanding. It felt remarkable. To think that there was someone on the face of the earth that could understand the soul of a vampire.

Methos got up from the couch. "Do you want more coffee?" he asked. Angel said no, and Methos took their mugs to the sink. Angel listened to him moving around the kitchen absently. He glanced at the table. A book was there. Methos was obviously in the middle of reading it. Angel picked it up. It was Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. Angel was familiar with the book. He had read it a few years back. He flipped to the last page and read again the words that had haunted him for a long time: ...because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth. Did they? Did they?

"That's a great book," Methos said as he reentered the living room.

"I know, I read it a few years ago."

Methos looked at him quizzically.

"While I was in college." Angel hurriedly explained.

"Right, well don't tell me the ending."

"Never," Angel assured him.

"I love Marquez. Love in the Time of Cholera is one of my favorites." They spoke of favorite books and various likes and dislikes, and they laughed and marveled at how much they had in common. They spoke again of love and love lost, of Buffy and Duncan. The conversation had an added depth now that Methos' immortality had been revealed. Slowly, they talked of obsessive love, the love that drags you down and pulls you up by turns.

Some time ago, perhaps when he had put the cups in the sink, Methos had turned off most of the lights in the apartment. He and Angel were sitting on the couch, a lot closer to each other than they had been a half an hour before. Their arms touched, innocently, as they slouched and talked of life and stared into the fire, and Methos offered Angel a gem, a pearl from the annals of his life, a thing that could give insight into his true nature, if one knew how to look. And Angel did not know that there were some people who would kill for such a rare jewel.

"I was in Cuba one year, a long time ago when they first started cultivating the sugar cane on the big plantations. I was working in Old Havana with the post office...." Methos talked slowly telling Angel of a young girl he had known there and of his ill-fated obsession with her. And of what he had done to her that had ruined her life, of how he remembered her face sometimes in his dreams. And how she was one of a thousand regrets.

Angel asked questions and spoke haltingly of some of his own trials and tribulations, though in abstract. They talked of helping others and Angel's mission in Los Angeles. Methos explained that after a very long life, he did not know whether he believed that you could really help anybody, whether, in the long run, anything that anybody did for anyone else made any difference at all. Time and chance press on regardless.

"I had a friend once named Darius," Methos offered, "who used to always say to me 'Give unto others what they need of you to survive'. But then he hid in a monastery until no one needed anything from him at all.

"Go figure."

It was getting late and they both knew it. Methos briefly considered making an offer that could be considered, in the morning, as being either beautiful or extremely ill advised. His hand brushed Angel's lightly and the electricity, the shock of feeling, decided him. He took Angel's hand firmly in his own and started massaging the palm, exploring his fingers. They were both still facing the fireplace, staring into the fire. Methos turned and gazed at Angel, to look in his eyes for the answer to his unspoken offer. They sat looking at each other, hand in hand; faces as close as two faces could be and not be touching. This was the moment for kissing, and Methos looked, looked and looked for the answer, and was surprised when all he could find in Angel's eyes was heartfelt regret.

Methos stiffened and looked at the door. He got up quickly.

"What is it?" Angel said, jumping up from the couch also.

But Methos had no time to explain the sting of an Immortal presence before there came the sound of someone banging down the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

On me Love’s fiercer Flames for ever prey,  
By Night he scorches, as he burns by day.

Alexander Pope

+

"Damn."

"It's MacLeod," Methos warned Angel tiredly. Would this day never end? "Stay here. Please. I'll handle it." Methos motioned for Angel to sit in the armchair.

Methos made his way towards the door angrily. What was MacLeod doing here? He glanced at the wall clock. It was after two o'clock in the morning! He looked towards the living room to make sure that Angel was not in direct line of sight. He turned the lock and yanked the door open.

"What?" His irritability was palpable; it could be cut, very easily, with a knife.

"Are you okay?" MacLeod was breathless, tense. His concerned gaze swept over Methos, assuring himself that his friend was alive with head still attached. Satisfied and sure of his welcome, he made to move past Methos into the apartment. But Methos stepped in front of him adroitly, stopping his progress.

"MacLeod, this is not a good time." Obviously, MacLeod was at the apartment because he had felt what had happened to Methos through their link. Had Methos been thinking clearly, he would have expected the Highlander to show up. He could have called him and forestalled this visit. What was wrong with his brain lately?

"As you can see I'm fine but I'm tired. I'll call you in the morning and tell you everything that happened. Okay?" Methos tried for placating reasonableness. Perhaps he fell short because MacLeod looked at Methos suspiciously and then glanced over his shoulder into the apartment.

"I want to talk to you now." MacLeod's face was like granite, implacable, unstoppable. His stubbornness was like a force of nature.

"No," Methos said simply.

"He's here." MacLeod stated incredulously.

"Who?" Methos replied, his eyebrows raising a notch in query. His disingenuous tone was like fuel to a raging fire.

"Angel. He's here isn't he?" MacLeod could hardly believe it, could barely say the words without spitting. In the space of eight hours this stranger, this . . . Angel, had become an annoyance, an affliction, a bane on his existence–his name analogous to a curse. In fact, MacLeod knew some choice three hundred year-old expletives that begged to be rained down on the stranger's head. Like a runaway horse, MacLeod pushed past Methos and barreled into the living room. And Methos was left, dumbfounded, holding an empty halter.

"Damn it." Methos closed the door and locked it. As there was no use crying over spilt milk, Methos hurried after MacLeod, hoping to be able to explain before the Highlander started a fight with his guest.

If the situation hadn't been so precarious, Methos would have burst into laughter upon entering the living room. There was Angel sitting in the armchair leisurely, feet on the ottoman, looking as comfortable as Bestat. His demeanor was calm, controlled, but his eyes were smoldering, his comportment broadcasting to all interested parties that he belonged here and that MacLeod did not.

Like the wrath of God, like a furiously hurled lightning bolt, MacLeod took in the scene with a glance and then flew across the room. Angel stood up slowly. Methos, shaking his head in consternation at the situation, noticed absently that Angel looked like he could hold his own.

"MacLeod!" Methos protested in vain as he watched his erstwhile lover descend on Angel.

But MacLeod was not listening, could not hear him as he stood face to face with the one person whose head he'd gladly cut off. His hatred was irrational as were all things stemming from the inutile seeds of jealousy. Sharp, scalding images flashed before his mind's eye, erotic images of Angel and Methos, images that had been strangely amorphous, fictitious even, up until the time he had seen the two of them together at the dojo. Then he had been able to put a name to the images. Then it had all become clear.

He grabbed the front of Angel's sweater and shook him, hollering in his face, "What are you doing here?"

Angel was not one to lose his temper fatuously. He prided himself on his control and his compassion. But he was sore pressed in this instance. Could anyone hate another person as much as he hated MacLeod? Angel knew one thing: he would break both of MacLeod's arms if the man did not remove his hands from Angel's person.

Angel glanced at Methos, trying to determine how much leeway he had to put MacLeod in his place; to throw him across the room; to beat him senseless; to tear his throat out. What he read on Methos' face did not please him. He saw concern there–concern for MacLeod!

Angel looked away in disgust. He broke MacLeod's grip on his sweater negligently, derisively, and thrust him violently–though not as violently as he could have–away from him. Angel was bitter and frustrated, because he could see that despite MacLeod's most egregious behavior, Methos cared for him still. Despair enveloped him suddenly, as such things do. Because MacLeod had captured his heart first, would Methos never be free?

"Mac, what are you doing?" Methos yelled, grabbing MacLeod before he could make a second run at Angel.

Methos was at a loss. He knew that MacLeod could be jealous at times but this extreme emotionalism was so unlike him! On the one hand, Methos was flattered, but on the other he was worried. It was always a cause for concern when an Immortal started acting outside his personality. Methos wondered if, maybe, MacLeod was losing it.

Methos pushed MacLeod so that he fell onto the sofa. He was not sure what was wrong with MacLeod but he did know that he had to keep him away from Angel. It had not escaped his attention that Angel looked ready to murder someone.

Methos hissed at MacLeod, "Sit here. Be quiet or I swear I'll kill you." No idle threat and MacLeod knew it. He desisted.

Methos grabbed Angel's arm and pulled him over to the kitchen area where they could be seen but not easily overheard.

"I'm sorry," he began.

"It's not your fault," Angel answered seriously. "I don't know how you put up with him."

Methos sighed tiredly. "He's not always like this."

Methos grabbed his car keys off the counter top. "Listen, take my car. Do you think you can find your way back to the hotel from here?" Angel nodded his head reluctantly. "Good. I need to talk to him." Methos nodded his head in MacLeod's direction. "It'll be easier if you're not here. It's been a long night. I'm sure you're tired. Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Pick me up at eleven tomorrow and we'll head over to the park for the game." Methos smiled at Angel reassuringly.

"I don't like leaving you here with him." In fact, Angel did not like it at all, and the virulence of the feeling almost made him change into his vampire face spontaneously.

Methos' grin widened at the concern that was etched all over Angel. A small, unexamined tingle tickled the pit of his stomach. "What, do you think that just because you saved my life you're responsible for me?" Methos touched Angel's hand in gratitude. "Don't worry about MacLeod," Methos said dismissively. "I can handle him with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back.

"I just don't want things to get so out of control that the neighbors call the cops and you two alpha males end up breaking all my things." Methos touched Angel's hand again lightly, imploring him to understand. He could be a charming S.O.B. and he knew it.

"Please."

Angel nodded. He went to move towards the door but stopped as Methos touched his shoulder.

"Angel?" Methos looked at him seriously. "Thank you for saving my life." He grinned sheepishly. "Now get out of here and I'll see you tomorrow."

Angel nodded and turned away. He grabbed his coat off the coat rack and spared a last venomous look at MacLeod before letting himself out of the apartment.

"Happy?" Methos threw at MacLeod snidely once he had locked the door behind Angel.

MacLeod had moved over to the armchair, his usual spot whenever he was visiting, and the implicit connotations were not lost on Methos. He wondered to himself absently, "If I had asked Angel to sit on the couch instead of in Mac's chair, could I have avoided all this?" But then, who knew MacLeod would be so territorial about a chair?

Of course, Bestat was sitting in MacLeod's lap purring up a storm. Methos spared her one avowal of "Traitor" as he moved around the room. MacLeod's gaze followed him everywhere.

Where to start? What to say? Methos was just a little salty about being forced to have this big conversation with MacLeod in the middle of the night. Must the Highlander always be so pushy?

Methos walked over to the kitchen.

"Want something to drink? Beer, coffee, tea?" A peace offering. Methos figured that a little peace was in order in their little private war.

"You have coffee?"

"Yep."

Methos took out two mugs and the milk and sugar. MacLeod liked his coffee black but Methos loved his light and sweet. While he was in the refrigerator, he decided that he was hungry and pulled out the turkey and cheese.

"Are you hungry," he called out.

"No. Thanks."

Methos made himself a sandwich, grabbed the bag of potato chips and dropped everything on the living room table. He made one more trip back to the kitchen to get the coffee cups. He handed MacLeod his cup and put his own on the table. Then he deposited himself on the couch in a slouch, placed his plate with the sandwich on his stomach and brought half of the turkey sandwich to his mouth. He watched MacLeod intently.

"I don't know how you eat all that," Mac grumbled. "It's the middle of the night for chrissakes."

"Dying always makes me hungry . . . what can I say?" Methos answered glibly with a shrug of a shoulder.

MacLeod sat silently, wholly engrossed in petting the cat. Methos had always thought that MacLeod should have some kind of pet: a cat, a dog, or some fish...something. He was really very good with animals. He had a lot of love to give. Methos wondered absently what MacLeod would do if he got him a puppy for Christmas this year. And the normality of that thought told Methos where he should go with this conversation.

"MacLeod, my friend. What am I going to do with you?"

MacLeod looked up at his comment. Methos was taken aback by the look of utter distress that he saw in MacLeod's eyes. It saddened him and affected him deeply. It wasn't so long ago that the sun had risen for him in those eyes.

And a niggling seed of guilt sprouted in the loam of Methos' conscience at being the cause of such unhappiness. Despite the fact that he felt justified in his ire, it was not easy staying mad at his friend while sitting in his apartment in front of the fire, as they had so many times in the not so distant past. Where had all those days gone? Was it sensible to miss them so?

"Talk to me," MacLeod said, his tone, his demeanor, pleading with Methos to be reasonable.

"Ask." Methos offered up, an olive branch of sorts. "I'm at your disposal, more or less." Methos grinned sheepishly. "What do you want to talk about?"

Everything. Nothing, MacLeod's thoughts whispered silently, but he settled for, "What happened tonight?"

So Methos told him about what happened: about the Immortal or Immortals, about the chase, about the mortal woman in the taxi, and about the gunshots.

"He saved my life," Methos said of Angel.

MacLeod nodded noncommittally. "So he knows you're immortal?"

"Well, gee, I died and came back to life. I had to tell him something." Methos quipped. "Don't worry. I told him only enough to whet his curiosity."

"Yeah, you're good at that."

"Listen, don't start with me," Methos warned mildly while munching some chips.

Since the topic of Angel had come up, Methos thought it a good idea to segue into MacLeod's animosity towards Angel in general.

"Speaking of Angel . . ."

"Were we?" MacLeod grumbled.

"Yeah. What's wrong with you? I've never seen you like this towards anyone that wasn't an Immortal. Did Angel do something to you? Do you not like his smell? What?"

"Leave it to you to make everything a big joke."

Methos sighed. "I'm not trying to denigrate your feelings. I'm just trying to understand."

"Damn it, Methos!" MacLeod exploded out of the armchair as if the extremity of his feelings were just too much to contain while in repose. "What do you think is the matter with me? You want me to stand around while you . . . while you . . ." MacLeod waved his hands in the air at a loss.

"You act as if you care." Methos said bitterly.

"I do care."

"Only when it's convenient. Only when it's easy."

"That's not true." MacLeod protested.

"Right, keep it in the closet, so to speak. Care when no one is looking. Care so that no one knows."

"It's no one's business!"

"True. But it would have been nice to know that you were proud of me, of being with me. I was proud of you."

MacLeod stood looking down at Methos who was still slumped on the coach. He was aware that he had taken Methos for granted. That the extent of his insensitivity towards his friend had only become clear to him recently was no excuse at all. Looking back, MacLeod realized that Methos had always loved him, had hung around, that he had suffered through MacLeod's many assignations on the hope that one day he would return that love openly and honestly. And what was wrong with that? Was it really so different being publicly involved with a man than a woman? Maybe it would be hard, but wasn't it worth it?

MacLeod knew that he was dangerously close to losing Methos entirely, had felt his passing from within his grasp all week long. And Angel. MacLeod knew with the bitterly sharp intuition of one in love, that Angel was there waiting. The thought was anathema to him, and MacLeod's resolve grew firm. He would not lose Methos. Could not lose him. MacLeod knew that he could not exist entire without him.

"Mac. Mac!" Methos said, trying to get his attention. "You're going to have to tell me what all this means."

MacLeod returned his attention to the present. He knelt down at the side of the couch so that he could talk to Methos closely, on his level. So that Methos could see the seriousness, the love in his eyes.

"Listen, I know that a lot has happened, too much lately. I was wrong about Joi. I should have never let her come between our friendship, our relationship." MacLeod pleaded with Methos to understand in a low voice. "I know that I've said some terrible things, done some things.... But Methos! You drive me crazy sometimes." He touched Methos' face lovingly, longingly. "But I think you know that I love you. Because I do." This last was said intently and with all honesty.

The admission was bittersweet. How many times had Methos wished those words would rain down on him, wished that MacLeod could see that their relationship was so much more than sex, more than friendship? Was it too late? After all this time, could such an admission be trusted? Hope was delicate, like butterfly wings. Could Methos allow himself to hope again?

Methos raised a hand and cupped MacLeod's face. His thoughts were racing. This was the man that had made of him an acolyte–no, a sacrifice. A sacrifice to feed the fire of his own self-righteousness. But he was also the one who had saved him, the one who had kept his faith alive. And he was his love. And love is the strongest of emotions: stronger than pain, stronger than grief, stronger, even, than pride.

So Methos leaned over and kissed him, his best friend, his love, and hoped absently that he was making the right decision.

When was the last time that Methos had initiated a kiss between them? Thoughts raced through MacLeod's head as the most wonderful sensations spread from the hand against his cheek, to his lips that were being plundered like stolen treasure, to the tips of his toes. It must have been before Joi. How could he have lived so long bereft of it?

Methos broke their embrace slowly with an intimate smile and a lick of tongue over his lips. The passion and the firelight had changed his eyes to gold. It had been so long since MacLeod had seen Methos' eyes alight with anything but anger. He would have liked to drown himself in the passionate gold of those eyes.

"Methos?"

Methos had jumped up from the couch and extended a hand to pull MacLeod up out of his crouch. He steered MacLeod to the armchair, sat him down and then deposited himself in his lap. He draped his long legs over the right arm of the chair.

"Aren't you a little big to be sitting in my lap?"

"Nope. Never too big for that." Methos grinned and wiggled his ass a little in emphasis. Like the onslaught of an avalanche, MacLeod was suddenly, achingly hard as a rock.

"I see what you mean," he said dryly.

Methos knew that they still had a lot to talk about. "I love you too, you know," he said seriously. "But I'm not going to get back into this with you unless you can promise me a few things first."

"Like what?" MacLeod was so happy he would have gladly promised Methos the moon.

"I need you to believe in me. Even if I don't always tell you what's going on, even if I lie or if something from my past sneaks up on us. I need you to stand by me through thick or thin. Trite, I know, but can you do that? It's a lot to ask."

"Yes," MacLeod agreed quickly, ignoring the fact that he had never managed such a feat where Methos was concerned before. But all things seem possible in love, and MacLeod believed at that time, at that place, that it was within his nature to accept Methos and support him even without knowing or understanding the enormity of Methos' life. And since MacLeod believed it at the time he made the promise, it wasn't, really, a lie.

"And I want to be upfront about everything this time. I'm too old for this secretive shit. Either we're together exclusively and openly or not. You have to want this, otherwise I think it would be better that we just be friends."

"No!" MacLeod protested. "I've thought about it. Joe knows and it wasn't a big deal to him. I know it will be more difficult with other people but I just can't . . . I won't lose you just because of other people. You're the most important thing to me."

"Good," Methos said, pleased. "Then I expect that next time we're in Joe's, you will give me a big, wet, sloppy kiss in front of everyone to cement our agreement."

MacLeod laughed at the thought. Wouldn't that be a sight? "You've got a deal." He reached up and placed a kiss lightly on Methos' lips.

"And Angel," Methos added quietly. MacLeod stiffened. "He saved my life. He's a friend of mine now whether you like it or not. I want you to ease up on him."

MacLeod's stomach clenched. "Are you sleeping with him?"

Methos sighed in exasperation. "Mac, what is it that you want me to tell you?"

"I want you to tell me that you're not sleeping with him and I want it to be true."

"Your wish is my command," Methos said lightly. "I'm not sleeping with him. I haven't slept with him and that's the truth. I swear–cross my heart and hope to die." Methos made an "x" over his heart.

"Then as long as he keeps his hands off you we won't have a problem," MacLeod responded grudgingly.

Methos considered him askance, wondering if he could trust the Highlander in this instance. He was being so irrational about Angel! Well, only time would tell. Methos figured that after this weekend he wouldn't have too much of a reason to spend extraneous time with Angel and that if he was wary, there would be no opportunity for trouble.

"You're so cute when you're jealous."

"I am not jealous!"

"Yeah, right. You're about as green as Kermit the frog. As a matter of fact, I should start calling you Kermit.... "

"Only if I can call you Miss Piggy," MacLeod interrupted sweetly.

MacLeod started laughing, and Methos shut him up with a kiss, and another, and another. After some time, they came up for air.

"Was that my sweater you had on tonight?" MacLeod asked, knowing that the answer was obvious.

"Yeah," Methos admitted warily.

"I can't believe you wore my sweater on a date."

"It was not a date!" Methos protested futilely. "What can I say? It looks good on me."

"Well, you ruined it."

"Hardly my fault," Methos retorted smartly.

MacLeod sniffed in feigned disgust.

"Don't worry. I'll get you another."

"Yeah, right."

"I will!" Methos exclaimed indignantly.

"Right. And I'm a big yellow bear named Pooh." MacLeod thought about what he'd just said, taking in Methos' speculative gaze.

"Don't," MacLeod warned.

"Well you left yourself wide open...."

"Just don't."

They spent some more time like that, reacquainting themselves with one another, and found that like a bird with a broken wing, one never truly forgets how to fly. Methos knew that it was getting late, that their kisses and harmless gropings should lead to a night of sweet sex upstairs in the bedroom. It had been a long time and he was eager, but what was the rush? A part of Methos' mind existed as in a state of spiraling vertigo, strange images of things that had happened, and things that had never happened, flitting confusedly in the back of his mind. Methos was tired, exhausted even, and they both could use some time to absorb this newest development in their relationship. So Methos pulled back, explained to MacLeod that they still had a lot to talk about and should pick up with things tomorrow. It was getting late he said. And he said that he was tired.

MacLeod was frustrated. He wanted Methos more than a starving man wants food, the taste of him, the feel of him, everything. And if a niggling suspicion ate at the corners of his subconscious as he left the apartment, he dismissed it. Even though Methos had never been too tired to have sex before.

Even so.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Ten

The Devil stirs beside me, constantly:  
Floats around me like an air impalpable;  
I feel him in my lungs, incendiary,  
Bringing desires eternal, culpable.

Destruction, Charles-Pierre Baudelaire

+

The door closed, finally and MacLeod was gone, finally. Methos was alone, with the tension of the day weighing on him, as arduous as zero sum gravity. He flexed his shoulders and stretched his back muscles. He felt like one of Michelangelo's statues, the contrapposto with which the shoulders strain one way, while the face or knees are turned another–he felt exactly like that, with a tension so close to torsion oppressing him.

He was tired. Something nagged at him, niggled on the edge of his consciousness. He did not know what it was. It was as if he had forgotten some vital task, as if there was something more that was to happen. But what...? Somewhere in his brain, like a distant bell tolling, a tocsin of unease kept on.

Dying always made him fell grungy. It was such a messy business. And his immortal regeneration, of skin, of internal organs and such, always left him feeling as if he was wearing a new suit or a new pair of jeans that needed to be broken in. Like he was a stranger in his own skin. He ascended the stairs, walked through the big room and over to the fireplace. Kneeling, he built a fire and warmed himself for a moment, assuring himself that the fire had all the fuel it needed to thrive. Rising, he walked into the master bathroom and started the water in the tub. He would take a bath. It would relax him, and maybe he would be able to get some sleep tonight.

He added some bubble bath to the water and lit a couple of the scented candles. He loved bathing and pampering himself. How he longed for the time when servants used to perform all one's ablutions! Those were the good ole days.

Bemused, he watched the water rise in the tub and the bubbles form on top like cream. A strong scent of sandalwood rose from the candles and Methos smiled. He was relaxing already.

He went back downstairs and walked slowly through the living room and over to his stereo. He pressed a button and the cool sounds Gato Barbieri's tenor saxophone wafted through the air. He forwarded the track to Europa and quickly programmed the tracks he wanted to hear thereafter. He set the timer so that the system would turn itself off automatically in thirty minutes.

What was that? Methos turned his head quickly, startled, and looked around the apartment. Had he heard something?

He paused uncertainly and walked over to the window. He parted the curtain and looked out on the slumbering night, down to the street. Was someone out there?

Methos expelled air out of his mouth in exasperation. Silly. Of course, there was no one out there. He must be hearing things.

He went back upstairs to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet seat and pulled off his shoes and socks. Barefoot, he stood up and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

"Yes?" Methos spun around quickly. Had he heard someone call his name? Was someone there?

"Bestat?" he called out uncertainly. Where was that damn cat?

Methos dropped the t-shirt on the floor and ran a hand through his hair. He thought he must be more than a little bit tired because now he was hearing things. Obviously, no one was in the apartment so he dismissed his misgivings, trying to ignore the feeling of unease that was gnawing at him.

He thought, absently, that his jeans felt stiff. A good washing should take care of the bloodstains. He unbuttoned the fly and wriggled them off his body along with his boxers. He scooped them up off the floor and deposited them in the hamper. Naked, he walked over to the tub, tested the water and turned off the faucet. Perfect.

He grabbed a towel and slung it around his waist. He was thirsty, parched even. He headed back downstairs to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He drank the water leaning on the counter and then deposited the glass in the sink.

And right before he headed back upstairs to the bathroom to immerse himself in the tub, he walked to the balcony doors and unlocked them and never thought to ask himself why.

+

In a strange condition, Methos lay in the bath, distrait, his mind partially occupied with some other, amorphous sound...calling, calling. Come to me. Come to me. I await. The water was hot and the heat was soothing, sensual. He was besieged by sensuality and lovely listless desires. His body was immersed up to his neck and his head rested heavily against the back of the large tub. Lethargy stole slowly but certainly over him like a harbinger. Strange, abstract thoughts came in drifts, easily, totally.

A lost gust of wind as from an open window . . . or door . . . circulated, making the flames of the candles giggle and dance like harem girls. The joyful candlelight cast hypnotic, dissolute images upon the ceiling and walls, causing Methos much amazement. Then, as smooth and easy as a beloved lullaby, his mind became a river of ruby light and he went down into it.

Can a man sin in his dreams? And the betrayal–when it occurs, as it will, for such is the nature of dreams–is the betrayal the fault of the insidious dream or the fault of the dreamer, he who allows himself to be led where he should not go? Both. Perhaps neither.

Ah, the wonders of the slumbering consciousness, that pursues eagerly, ardently, that which upon waking we know we should not.

+

Angel ascended the stairs slowly, hesitantly. Drawn like a spirit newly summoned, driven like a dog in heat. Compelled from within. Compelled from without. His desire was hot, so hot, within him, fueled by jealousy, fueled by lust. And he heard the call, irresistible, incessant, like the sweetest music drifting across the cold night air. And he could not resist.

And in the back of his mind a lost voice whispered as if from the middle of a desert. It said that what he was doing was not right. That it was wrong, so wrong. That he should stop. Go back. Leave. But he could not. He could not!

And the darkness spun like a wheel.

Up and up. Up the stairs into the large open room that occupied the whole second floor, he flowed silently. Past the giant four post bed; past the fireplace, like a shadow, a night shade. Towards the bathroom. And what lay in wait for him there.

Until, finally, his eyes came to rest on the lure, the draw.

Methos was in the bath, and Angel caught his breath sharply. He looked totally relaxed. And beautiful. There was no other word for it. He was immersed in water but his arms, and upper chest were invitingly exposed. Bubbles encircled him and the skylight overhead shone pale starlight on his distinct features, illuminated his pale skin. His face was flushed with heat, the heat of the bath, the heat of desire. Dark hair framed his face damply and his eyes were like golden almonds and about as readable. To Angel he smelled like sunshine, moist and hot and beckoning.

Come to me. Come to me.

It was the eyes that drew him forward. If he had been chained, bound physically, unable to move, still his spirit would have flown over to the tub in spite of the flesh. A hand reached up and touched his and he was lost. So lost!

I have been waiting for you.

Angel heard the chastisement clearly in his mind, though not a word had been spoken. Abstractly, Angel knew that Methos was bemused, merely acting out a subconscious fantasy that had everything to do with their blood bond and Angel's own innate power to mesmerize. And he died a little inside knowing that the feelings were not true feelings; that the memory of this love would die on the breast of a fickle dawn. A dawn that despises vampires. A dawn that loves only its own.

And as Angel trailed a hand over Methos' damp skin, up his arm to brush his neck and cup his face lightly, he gave himself up to this moment stretched to infinity. But in the capitulation, Angel knew one small moment of resolve: that if this moment was to be, if there was no self control to be grasped within him, if the gods and fate and chance had all conspired against him, then what he took in deceit from Methos this night he would give back over and over again in love.

Rationalizations. They always serve to free the conscience, but that does not make them any less true.

+

Time fractured. A lifetime passed in one faint exhalation of breath. Angel felt these things and more as Methos kissed the palm of his hand and the moist breath tickled. Angel trailed a finger across a sharp cheekbone, down behind the ear and cupped the back of his neck. They looked at one another and Angel knew himself to be overdressed and entirely too confined. He stepped back from the tub reluctantly. Methos sighed longingly at their separation.

Angel disrobed slowly with Methos' eyes on him hotly. He pulled the sweater over his head and draped it on the sink. He kicked one shoe off, then the other. His fingers reached into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out the bottom of his t-shirt. This, too, went over the head and onto the sink. And Angel stood bare-chested in the candlelight.

The jeans were unbuttoned with a flare for the dramatic. Movements were slow and meant to entice. All for a rapt audience of one. He pushed the jeans down over his hips and stepped out of them, kicking them negligently out of the way. His boxers were tented, stark evidence of a huge erection straining, straining for its freedom. He took them off with deliberation and stood naked and beautiful and for the pleasure of one whose eyes devoured.

How deeply my soul is stained with yours, he thought to himself as he knelt down beside the tub. He reached out and captured a sponge, stopping Methos from reaching for him as he moved with a whispered, "No. Let me."

Angel tended him, like a mother, like an acolyte and worshipped him like the stars in the sky by glance and by touch. The sponge washed away the weight of the world, and Angel alternated light teasing kisses with gentle stokes on the neck, the shoulders, the back. And delicate licks of the tongue, tasting the most exotic of finger food, the most interesting libation.

The water was cooling. It was time. Angel reached for a towel, big and fluffy, and nodded to Methos that he should rise. And he did, stepping out of the tub gracefully, water dripping from his naked body.

Ah! To be jealous of a drop of water that clings, that spends itself and soaks itself into such perfection! To be a drop of water, glittering like a diamond on the body of such a one!

The towel that Angel had been holding expectantly a moment before was on the floor and two naked bodies wrapped themselves around each other, erections trapped and straining in the between. Dark, devouring pleasure ate at them as their mouths locked and tongues entwined. Wet bodies slid against each other and hands grabbed and kneaded until all that existed were stultifying, indescribable sensations. Methos had a hand in Angel's hair, grabbing, trying to bring him closer, trying to suck the soul out of his mouth. Angel knew that if he did not slow it down, he would spend himself right in the middle of the bathroom.

He broke away and picked the towel up off the floor quickly. He wrapped it around Methos lovingly, grabbed his hand and drew him out of the bathroom and towards the bed.

Waking dreams, hallucinations, omens haunted every corner of the room. But true desire had sunk its teeth into him and Angel could not deny its colossal rush.

Like children, they fell into the bed as if it were a bank of snow. Skin touched skin. Angel kissed and sucked and licked every place imaginable and found his ardor answered in equal measure. Methos lay over him, pressed him down onto cool, smooth sheets, curved to his body. And they moved together like the waves upon the ocean. Angel swam strongly in the sweetness of it.

Angel flipped Methos over so that he was lying on the bottom. He looked around, spied massage oil on the nightstand and reached for it. Slowly, slowly he poured a small amount onto his hands and rubbed them together, heating them.

He began with Methos' chest and worked his way methodically down the long, lithe body, the flat stomach, the strongly muscled thighs. He spared a moment to suck at the belly button and to kiss around the downy hair that started there. His hands were firm and he caressed and massaged the oil into Methos' skin like an offering. He worked like that until he could no longer resist the strongly straining cock, the hands in his hair pulling, pulling him down until his mouth engulfed the eager shaft, and he sucked and sucked and sucked.

Frantically, with one hand he stroked his own erection, with the other he tended to his love. Lips and tongue, suckling kisses, teasing nips and gentle bites, and the strong heady scent of lust assailed the senses.

Quickly, Angel turned Methos over. And Methos writhed in frustration like a cat. Angel soothed him, whispered promises of more and better things if he would only be patient. He massaged Methos' shoulders and back, kneading the buttocks and working down the legs. Angel kissed and licked everywhere, and Methos stretched and arched his back wantonly in response.

Movements became frantic, demanding. Hips gyrated together, body against body. Angel needed. He need more and better contact. Needed to be inside, a part of Methos. His fingers fumbled with the oil and he laved his penis with it. And with insistent prodding, he moved inside, slowly and sweetly, tentative this time unlike the last time they had been together like this, exploring rather than invading.

They moved together slowly, as if they were under the sea. Wave upon wave of sensation washed over them and crashed thunderously as onto rock. The room, the firelight the bed even, faded into the background oddly and the only thing that existed was the sweetness of sensation–sweet, as sweet as honey.

Angel brought his face to Methos' neck as they moved together like a song to a melody. His neck was strong and vital. The salty taste of sweat consumed Angel's tongue as he licked and licked until he found what he was looking for. Angel trailed his tongue along the vein that ran right behind the ear, the river of life that throbbed and spoke to him in beautiful whispers matching the beat of Methos' heart. He put his lips to the vein and kissed with the drawing kiss that bruises, bringing the thing within to the surface. Methos moaned and arched his back trying to draw Angel further inside, deeper inside, to hold Angel to him forever. Their pace became frantic and as Angel made the wound. Methos shuddered, and when Angel began to draw the blood, the shudder became convulsive.

Spiraling, spiraling down into a vast sea of consciousness. Angel swam strongly but could not fight against the current that was Methos' mind. A ruby red haze colored everything, and the blood, the immortal blood was fine, so very fine, like nectar. Where did Methos end and Angel begin? Angel rushed along on rapids of sweet, sweet blood hurtling towards the edge of a great waterfall. And over the edge he went, and fell tumbling into the river of memory.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Eleven

I have been here before,  
But when or how I cannot tell:  
I know the grass beyond the door,  
The sweet keen smell,  
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before, –  
How long ago I may not know:  
But just when at that swallow's soar  
Your neck turn'd so,  
Some veil did fall, – I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?  
And shall not thus time's eddying flight  
Still with our lives our love restore  
In death's despite,  
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Sudden Light, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

+

This village was like a dozen other villages in this area of the world: dull, drab, unremarkable and wet. Always and very wet. Methos pulled his cloak closer around himself and the newborn baby and heeled the side of his horse to encourage it to catch up to his companion who was riding–no, prancing–some distance ahead. "Conceited, self-absorbed peacock," Methos mumbled and wondered sourly why he always got stuck riding while holding the babies–no mean feat by any stretch of the imagination–while Romy got to prance majestically–comfortably!–up ahead. Was there no justice in the world?

Methos glanced down at the child to make sure he was still sleeping. He knew that they needed to find a good home for him as soon as possible. The longer it took the harder it would be. Methos sighed and ran a finger lightly over the baby's cheek. This one was special.

He did not need Romy to tell him that the child would be important to the Game, although Romy would be quick to lay claim to the foreknowledge. His longtime companion would be the first to point out that they would never have found the baby had it not been for his prescience. And he would be right. Methos was well aware of his reliance on Romy in this area. But to be reminded of it over and over–sometimes it was past bearing. Methos thought that the sooner he and Romy could go their separate ways the better. Their relationship always improved when there were a couple of continents between them.

It seemed to Methos that more and more pre-Immortals were coming into being these days. Most would never realize their immortality and many others would sink or swim on their own. But there were those few who had the potential to be special: those whose unique possibilities pulled him out of hiding and required his interference, his involvement in their lives. Those special ones needed to be found and placed with families that would provide them with the greatest likelihood of realizing their immortality. Methos watched the special ones closely over the years, providing help where necessary, keeping track of them in case he needed to put them into play.

Thankfully, Romy's sight provided them with the information they needed–the knowledge of when and, more importantly, where a special pre-Immortal was to appear. His sight was the reason why they were trekking through the cold and perpetual rain in Ireland, the reason that they had searched for and found this little one. He and Romy had been doing this for ages, and even though Methos hated to admit it, Romy's sight was the only reason they were able to preserve the balance in preparation for the Gathering. Methos supposed that the other side had a similar advantage in identifying and preserving potential assets to their cause. That was the way of such things.

Methos followed his companion down the broad central street that branched straight off the road. They looked around cautiously for someplace where they could put up for a few weeks while plans were made for the boy. The central street had a main watercourse, a stream that carried off the sewage. Steppingstones crossed the water at intervals, and at other intervals narrow alleys ran between the houses. Most of the buildings fronting the main thoroughfare were shops, their open faces fenced in by locked gates.

Looking around somewhat distastefully, Methos spied three inns at the end of the street. The two men bypassed the first inn by mutual assent. It was too loud and seemed entirely too active for their requirements. The second inn was only two doors away from the first but plainly served as the village brothel. The final inn stood on the corner formed by the central street and an adjacent alley. It was also loud and bright, but to a lesser degree.

The writing on the sign in front of the inn was virtually illegible. Methos and his companion dismounted, secured their horses and belongings and proceeded to the door. Romy pushed the door wide enough to be admitted, and Methos followed with his hood covering his face and the baby hidden under an arm. Of course, everyone turned to see who was coming in. Predictably, their reaction on learning was disturbed, but vague.

Once in their rooms, Methos settled down to care for the child who had woken up and was looking around curiously in the way of babies. He was a beautiful child with the face of an angel and a shock of dark hair. Methos found his little eyes particularly entrancing. They followed him everywhere he went. The baby, as is wont, was fixated on him, the provider of all good things, the center of his little world.

And in the distance the lightning flashed. And the thunder roared.

+

Methos walked into the master bedroom on the Kirwan estate hurriedly. The scent of pain and sweat assaulted his senses strongly, in the way of raw sewage or unwashed soldiers. A young woman was stretched out on her back on a large bed with a serving girl trying to calm her. She was very obviously pregnant and in distress. Methos rushed to her side.

"Are you the doctor?" the serving girl asked nervously. She turned away from her mistress momentarily to give him a careful inspection.

With the confidence of ages and a glint of unassailable ability in his eyes, Methos said, "Yes. I'm Doctor Benjamin Adams." He took his bag and placed it at the foot of the bed and checked the pregnant woman's pulse before turning back to the serving girl.

The girl looked at Methos warily. He was unknown to her and she was uneasy at turning the care of her mistress over to this tall stranger no matter how capable he seemed.

"What happened to Doctor O'Kelly?" she asked hesitantly.

"He had a family emergency that required that he travel to London. I was planning to be in town for a while and made arrangements to help out in his absence. I am qualified." Methos grinned charmingly to put the young girl at ease. "Just in case you are worried."

"Oh no, doctor," she assured him quickly. "It's not you. It's just that my mistress seems to be having such a hard time. It was not like this for her during the birth of Master Eamon. And with Master Kirwan having to leave town unexpectedly, I'm concerned for her is all."

"What do you need me to do?" she offered, seeming to come to terms with the idea of Benjamin Adams as a doctor.

"Thank you but I can handle it from here. Why don't you go downstairs and if I need anything I'll call."

Methos went to work disconsolately. Romy had already seen that this would be a stillbirth and the truth of that was like ashes on his tongue. Still, with the hope that what had yet to be could be influenced, changed, Methos used his every skill to forestall the inevitable even though the arrangements that had been made in the last two weeks to reach this point, to have the chance to place the pre-Immortal baby with this family, were dizzying.

And at that moment, the light from a stormy sky passed through him and became the stars.

+

"My baby . . ." the young woman mumbled weakly.

Methos jumped up from the armchair by the fire. Finally, finally, the lady was awake. "Shh. Take it easy," he said to her softly as he walked to the basin of water by the bed. He wet a cloth and used it to wipe her face and forehead.

Her throat was dry and she spoke with difficulty. "My baby . . ." she tried again, raising a hand and weakly gripping Methos' arm as he leaned over her.

The serving girl was hovering anxiously. Methos put the cloth down and indicated that she should pour her mistress a glass of water. She passed it over and Methos watched his patient drink greedily before answering. "Lady Kirwan, I am Doctor Adams. Do you remember me?"

She shook her head tentatively.

"My lady," Methos continued softly, "I'm sorry to have to say this but your baby . . . the umbilical cord had tied itself around his neck. He could not breathe and we were too late to save him."

"No," she protested weakly. "My baby . . ."

Methos watched the tears pool in her eyes and erupt like a flood, pouring down her beautiful white cheeks. "I'm so sorry." It was inadequate but it was all that he could say.

He let her cry. He had tried, used all of his considerable experience to stem the tide of fate but it had made no difference. The baby had been born dead. Just as Romy had said. Just so. It was a miracle that Methos had been able to save the young woman's life - she had lost so much blood. Had any other doctor been attending she would have surely died. Methos took some solace in that fact.

"You must calm down. You need rest. You almost lost your own life."

But the stuttering sobs continued. "My baby . . . Eamon . . . he will . . . my God . . . No!"

Eamon? Her husband, Methos thought. Methos remembered that she also had a son named Eamon.

Methos pulled a chair to the side of the bed and held her hand until she calmed down. And as the serving girl stoked the fire, Methos spoke to the bereaved mother of options and of a newborn orphan who had lost his mother in childbirth, a boy child whom she could raise as her own son. And he told her that no one, not even her husband, need know.

And the stars burst in brilliance, one by one, and fell, called to earth and streaming across a midnight sky.

+

Methos opened the side door, took the pre-Immortal baby from Romy's arms and passed him the bundled stillborn child. Romy would make sure that the boy was buried properly. Methos hurried back up the stairs to the bedroom of the lady of Kirwan Estate. She was propped up in her bed and waiting for him anxiously.

He placed the beautiful baby boy in the arms of his new mother. As he watched the young woman attend the boy, he knew he had done the right thing.

"I must go," he said after a time.

"Doctor . . . I don't know how to thank you," she said sincerely, already enraptured by the child in her arms.

"I'll be back to check on you from time to time until Doctor O'Kelly returns," he assured her. Methos walked to the bedside and ran his finger along the downy cheek of the baby whose care had been his primary responsibility for the past two weeks. Leaving him was surprisingly difficult.

"And no thanks are necessary. I'm glad to be of service." Methos paused momentarily as he gazed lovingly on the little boy. "What will you call him?" he asked. The child was now sucking his finger.

"Liam. I'll name him Liam."

Methos pulled his finger from the child's mouth and touched his cheek lightly. Liam. "I will be back for you little one," he thought. "I will be seeing you again soon. Until then, live and grow strong."

And the world paused as the last star fell from the heavens.

+

Angel wrenched his consciousness out of the past as he felt Methos shudder convulsively. Spasms, little uncontrollable eruptions of passion, shook Angel as he thrust deeply, fiercely into Methos, his teeth locked to the vein in Methos' neck. He pulled his lover up from off the bed so that they were both kneeling, spooned together, front to back. Angel's hands were everywhere, feeling, stroking. He wrapped one arm around Methos' chest to pull him closer, ever closer. He reached down with the other and grabbed Methos' straining cock, his hand furiously massaging, stroking, tickling–as Angel pulled the life from his vein.

The orgasm, the climax that goes on and on, followed the rhythm from Methos' vein into Angel's mouth, long after the fluids of it were exhausted. And it would have gone on, just so, forever, until Angel stopped drinking or Methos died. And Angel could not stop drinking.

Slowly, Angel pulled back, called back his humanity as Methos lay slumped in his arms. Dead. Slowly, like the ministrations of a mortician, he arranged the body properly on the bed and covered him. Angel only allowed himself a moment, one parched moment, to lightly touch Methos' cheek and smooth back his hair. Angel studied his face. He had seen, many times, the faces of those who had died of a vampire's kiss. Why had he never noticed that lovers also had that same look on their face at the peak of joy?

Angel saw his situation clearly for the first time since he had laid eyes on Methos. He felt the silken rope about his neck tighten and saw himself hanged with it. He looked down at his own chest and saw the dagger of pleasure driven through his still heart.

And Angel looked at Methos and loved him more than life, more than god, just for a moment, and he grieved because of it, and his grief was part of the beauty, before the shame began.

finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I decided to use the 'sudden, tragic death' theory of pending immortality introduced in Endgame and The Raven. Hence, Methos discusses the possibility of a pre-Immortal becoming Immortal, not the inevitability.
> 
> 2\. I also outlined the myth of Cupid and Psyche. I lifted this from some notes I had in a folder. I can't give the exact place it comes from because all I have is a photocopy of a page of a book that I no longer seem to have. I think the book was called Mythology in Everyday Life but don't quote me. Also, the references to Michelangelo in that same section are compliments of Frederick Nims from his foreword to The Complete Poems of Michelangelo.


End file.
